


Are You A Sheep? No, You're...

by Asukachan07



Series: GoT Works [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bran is normal, F/F, F/M, Identity Reveal, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Post-Season/Series 06, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Slow Burn, Starks are Wargs, You know what I mean, jonsa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2020-08-14 04:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 83,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20186188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asukachan07/pseuds/Asukachan07
Summary: Post-Season 6.Jon refuses the title of King in the North, and nominates Sansa for Queen in the North.Not yet crowned, Sansa opens scrolls from places she didn't expect any correspondence: Dragonstone, Castle Black, and the Twins.Arya reconnects with an old friend on her way home.





	1. The Queen in the North

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Prince and the Queen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8107621) by [WendyNerd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd). 

> I keep dreaming of GoT AUs, that's how dissatisfied I've been with the end of the show. I decided to build on a s7-prediction one-shot I never posted.
> 
> The first half of chapter 1 is heavily inspired by WendyNerd's "The Prince and the Queen." The rest of the fic is either based on popular fandom theories or straight out of my REM sleep.
> 
> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.

Jon’s hands were shaking.

Sansa wouldn’t have noted that minute movement had she not glanced at Lord Baelish, who was among the few not hailing the new King in the North.

Had Robb shaken so when he had been named king, too? Was it from the thrill of being given a power so many failed at taking for themselves, or from the fear of not deserving that power?

Not so long ago, Sansa would’ve been excited to be part of such a historical moment, of being at the front seat of an event worthy of a song that would resonate in Westeros for centuries to come.

Not so long ago, Sansa would have wished for nothing more than to be royalty.

A few minutes ago, she had expected a formal apology from the houses who had refused her call, and she had been waiting for the acknowledgement that she was a true Stark, the true Lady of Winterfell.

_ Stupid little girl with stupid dreams who never learns. _

She ought to laugh. How was it that the gods never failed at reminding her that she could never have what she wanted? That this world was no place for a woman to be acknowledged for more than being a dutiful daughter, wife or mother?

_ Or sister. _

Sansa couldn’t resent Jon for accepting the crown of the North. Unlike Robb, he had fought for her. He had let her kill Ramsay herself. He had forgiven her going behind his back to recruit the army of the Vale. His sole concern was for her to be safe, he had made it clear from the beginning.

_ If I don’t watch over you, Father’s ghost will come back and murder me. _

How could she refuse him the reward of fulfilling his promise? The battle against Ramsay would’ve been lost without Littlefinger’s help, but there would’ve been no battle at all without Jon. Without him, Sansa’s life would’ve been that of a fugitive, wanted by both Ramsay and Cersei.

More importantly, how could she hold it against Jon for thwarting Petyr’s plan to rule the North through her? 

For there was no doubt that Jon would protect her from Lord Baelish. With a crown on his head, he would have the power to refuse any marriage proposal on her behalf. He knew her wish of staying safe in Winterfell, and he would fulfill it.

“No.”

Sansa blinked as silence toppled over the Great Hall. Had the faces in front of her not looked as shocked as she was, she would’ve sworn she had imagined Jon’s reply.

She looked at him from the corner of her eyes, praying to gods she didn’t believe in anymore that she had heard _ wrong. _

Jon’s hands were now tightened into fists, but still shaking. Sansa chanced a look at her brother’s face and saw the reason for his tremble.

Anger.

“You _ honor _ me, my lords, my lady,” Jon said with a tone belying his words, “but surely you don’t expect me to wear the crown of the North while a _ trueborn _ Stark is sitting right next to me?”

Years of proper upbringing followed by years in King’s Landing helped Sansa remain outwardly impassive as her heart threatened to plummet in her stomach and her mind reeled.

Jon couldn’t mean…

“She’s a woman, my Lord,” Lord Glover reminded the last of her kin, who clearly had spent too much time at the wall and beyond to remember the laws of the civilized Westeros.

“A woman who betrayed the North by marrying a Lannister, fully knowing what the traitors had done to her family. She can’t be trusted!” the bald man continued, and Sansa too started shaking with outrage.

“Can _ you _?” Jon spat back, his voice raised so loudly that it echoed through the hall.

Sansa turned to look at him, internally begging him to keep quiet and not offend the very people who had just given him power he normally had no right to. Jon was her brother, but to the rest of the world he was still a bastard…

“Can you be trusted to serve the crown of the North,” Jon questioned, his gaze spanning the entire room, “when you failed at protecting the trueborn daughter of your liege lord?”

Jon’s left hand was visibly shaking now, and Sansa reached for it. Whether it was to offer her support or beg him to stop this madness, she couldn’t tell herself.

“You all knew what a monster Ramsay Bolton was,” Jon kept going, his accusation fair, but the world wasn’t fair, he couldn’t expect all men to be like Father, not when all knew what happened to Ned Stark!

“Yet none of you offered any support to Sansa, who was Lady of Winterfell! Lord Eddard’s Stark daughter, _ King Robb _’s sister!”

Sansa took back her hand, upset despite herself. Robb hadn’t cared for her or Arya. To their trueborn brother, both of their lives had not been worth that of the Kingslayer.

“Had it not been for her, the North would still be under the tyranny of the Boltons,” Jon reminded his audience in a much calmer voice. “Had the decision been left to me, we both would’ve been warm in a free city in the East, with no care for the harsh winter that has come. I am but a bastard, with no claim and no loyalties owed.”

That was not true. Sansa knew how loved her half-brother was. He had been elected Lord Commander because people believed in him, and the Wildlings had followed him to fight Ramsay. He was a good man, undoubtedly the only man she could ever trust with her life.

“But Sansa insisted on retaking Winterfell, she trusted the North to rally behind the last true Stark to restore honor and justice to the people she was sworn to protect as the Lady of Winterfell. Yet, as Lady Mormont stated earlier, most of you refused her call. She had to call upon the Vale to take back control of the lands for _ you _!”

Sansa’s heart soared. Was Jon speaking sincerely? Did he think that highly of her?

“If her _ unwilling _ association with the Lannisters gives you pause, Lord Glover,” he returned his attention to the now chastised older man, “then you must at least respect her right of conquest. The crown should be hers for the simple reason that she took Winterfell from the Boltons, and Winterfell _ is _ the seat of the crown in the North.”

Silence fell again in the hall, and Sansa resisted the urge of gauging Lord Baelish’s reaction.

For if Jon convinced the North to name her queen, or let her remain Lady of Winterfell, there was no doubt that Petyr would jump on the occasion to request her hand in marriage. He would become the most powerful man of Westeros, lawfully controlling the Vale and the North.

Sansa shuddered at the idea.

“There’s never been a queen in the North,” Lord Manderly called out, and many mumbled their acknowledgement to his word.

Sansa saw a corner of Jon’s mouth lift before he replied.

“Aye. Neither has there ever been a queen of the Seven Kingdoms, yet Cersei Lannister sits on the Iron Throne.”

“A madwoman who has no respect for the laws of gods and men!” Lord Glover decried. “You cannot compare us to those scheming Southerners!”

This time, the hall buzzed with more confident words of agreements from the other lords. Phrases like “just a girl” and “no woman’s business” cut into Sansa’s hopeful heart.

The Northern Lords hadn’t refused her call for fear of losing against the Boltons, or because her marriages had sullied her identity as a Stark. They had refused her call because she was _ just a woman _.

She turned to Jon, ready to beg him to stop antagonizing their people and to adjourn the meeting with a pacifying promise of a feast to celebrate the liberation of the North. It didn’t matter now that her role wouldn’t be acknowledged.

“If we Northerners are any better,” Jon said with a voice dominating all, “if truly the North _ remembers _ what justice and honor mean, then we shall accept no ruler but one whose name is Stark. Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

He extended his left hand towards her, and though he had not touched her Sansa rose as if he had lifted her with the arms she knew were strong and safe.

_ I’ll protect you, I promise. _

Not only had Jon fulfilled his promise to protect her from Ramsay, he now was making the silent promise to protect her from all their enemies by giving her the power to rule the largest kingdom of Westeros. He was promising to put a whole army between her and Cersei.

He was refusing to take her birthright, even when circumstances and common sense should’ve made him accept the crown of the North for himself.

It was no surprise that, like their father, Jon had been murdered for his unfailing honor and sense of justice. Neither had any idea how to play the Game of Thrones.

Sansa did. She could teach Jon how not to get killed this time. It was her turn to protect him. She would protect her family as fiercely as Cersei ever did. But unlike the Lannisters, she wouldn’t count on violence and fear to have her way.

She would count on the respect and admiration Jon claimed she was owed.

“You are right that Cersei is a scheming madwoman,” Sansa finally spoke with the same calm but commanding tone Jon had used moments ago. 

“Believe me my Lords and Lady Mormont, when I tell you that she will not allow the North to undermine her rule. She will find ways to weaken us, bribe someone to finish the job her father started. She will see the North fall into chaos as soon as she finds the easiest way to charge through.”

“Yes, I have lived amongst traitors,” she conceded with no joy, and she felt Jon tense in anger on her behalf. 

“Not just the Lannisters, but the Boltons too. I was their prisoner, their puppet, yet here I stand today, alive when many of my family’s enemies are dead. But not all.”

She let her words sink in, noting Lord Manderly’s discomfort with satisfaction. He had inaccurately claimed that Jon had avenged the Red Wedding, while only the Boltons had been defeated. The Freys and Lannisters still stood.

“Cersei will not accept the North’s independence. It is true that she has no respect for the laws, or for honor or justice. She only ever bowed to power.”

“The North remembers, and in the memory of my father, Lord Eddard Stark, and my brother, King Robb Stark, I ask you to pledge your allegiance to me, Sansa Stark. I ask you to give me the power to unite the North and take revenge on those who wronged us. I ask you to help me restore House Stark, and show the Lannister woman that the power of the North is true and righteous, and that we will not bow to her kind.”

“The Queen in the North!” Lyanna Mormont immediately shouted with her loud but child’s voice, and for the first time in a while Sansa thought of Arya, of her strong-willed and fierce younger sister. 

Refusing to let emotions overtake her, Sansa stared at the other representatives of the North. Lord Glover Manderly was raising his sword anew.

“The Queen in the North!” he chanted, and once again the crowd followed his lead.

As Sansa let the voices of her now sworn subjects wash over her, she noted the intensity of two pairs of eyes on her, belonging to the only persons not calling her queen besides the Wildlings.

She didn’t acknowledge Lord Baelish. Instead, she her head to lock eyes with Jon, and had she not set her features to look unperturbed, she would’ve gasped.

Sansa hadn’t cared to know Jon in her childhood, but she had always thought that his gray eyes were dull.

When she had first seen him at Castle Black a few weeks prior, his eyes had looked cold, and after he had told her about his death she had wondered if their coldness reflected his soul.

But now, the eyes fixed on them were dark but warm with pride. There was something else in the heat of his gaze, something familiar yet unnamed that resonated in her soul. She thought she ought to be able to recognize it, but the shock of seeing her half-brother so…happy, coupled with the urgency of the circumstances, prevented her from investigating that mysterious feeling.

Turning back to the men and Lyanna Mormont, Sansa raised her hand to quiet the crowd.

“Thank you all for your trust. I won’t let my inexperience in war and politics make me disappoint you. After the coronation feast in a fortnight, I will name the members of my council.”

She didn’t blink at the sparks of greed that lightened the eyes of many, Lord Baelish included.

“And I hope that my decision to name my brother heir to the throne will not offend.”

She heard Jon gasp, but no one else seemed bothered by her words.

“Until then, I request that you all send ravens home to spread the news of my coronation, and rest. We have work to do, and I expect everyone to do it well.”

* * *

The leaders of the North bowed and retreated gradually, Littlefinger the last to linger until Jon’s body language made him follow Lord Royce.

Jon himself briefly talked to Ser Davos and Tormund before catching up to Sansa as she made her way back to her quarters—her parents’ chambers, not Robb’s which Ramsay had claimed.

“Sansa,” he started, and she briefly delighted in how open he was about both his pride in her but also his doubts in her first decision as a queen. She narrowed her eyes at him.

“You really ought to find a way to mask your emotions, Jon,” she admonished. “You’re a prince now, and more than ever you cannot let people know what you think before you even speak.”

“Why did you make me your heir?” He questioned. “I do not—”

“Don’t you dare sell yourself short after singing my praises so loudly in the Great Hall,” she countered with a smile to let him know she held no grudge against his action. “I have no training in leading, yet you named me queen. You were Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, surely you deserve the title of prince more than I deserve the crown.”

Jon gripped her arm so fast that she flinched a heartbeat too late. Noticing that Jon’s grip was too gentle and that he wasn’t crowding her space helped Sansa force her fear down.

_ Ramsay’s dead. He can’t hurt me anymore. _

“You deserve it, Sansa.” Jon asserted, though he must have noticed her reaction for he quickly released her.

“I wasn’t singing your praises, I was telling the truth. You are strong, intelligent, and you are the rightful heir of Winterfell. I cannot believe the nerves of these men. Lady Mormont is a child, I can forgive her zeal, but the rest…”

“They were right, Jon, women have never ruled as queens of their own right before.” Sansa commented as she resumed her walk, and Jon matched her steps as if it were the most natural thing in the world to him.

Sansa still marvelled at their synchronicity. From the moment they had hugged at Castle Black she had found her body follow a silent rhythm Jon’s seemed to also be attuned to. 

Whether they were engaged in small talk or in a heated argument, their body language reflected a harmony Sansa had not experienced with anyone else before. The only other person she had ever tried to match had been her lady mother, and Sansa didn’t like much to think of Catelyn Stark in the presence of Jon. 

Even as a child, she had known in her heart that her mother treated her half-brother unfairly, but back then Sansa had no care for anyone but herself and her future as a lady to a handsome and gallant Southern lord.

Now, after seeing him refuse the Northern Lords’ offer to take her birthright, she knew that her mother’s grudge and suspicion against Jon had been misplaced. Catelyn Stark was known for resenting Jon’s Northern looks, truer signs of Ned Stark parentage than Robb who had Tully eyes. 

Jon had always known his place as a bastard, but Sansa’s mother had never missed a chance to remind him of it.

Sansa wished, not for the first time despite knowing better, that her parents, oldest and youngest brothers were still alive; she wished her mother could see what a good man Jon had grown to become, despite the baseborn and unlawful birth Catelyn had claimed would define his nature. 

It was quite ironic to Sansa that the half-brother she never cared for had ended up to be as honorable and gallant as the knights of the songs she adored as a child.

_ And handsome too. _

Again, she was reminded that she ought to talk him out of his predictably honorable ways. He stood no chance against Baelish as was.

“They were wrong, and they came to their senses and named you queen,” Jon objected lightly.

His mirth quickly died, and Sansa mentally braced for their looming argument.

“Still, Sansa, making me your heir is…”

“Would you rather have me marry some opportunist, who would usurp my power the moment I gave birth to his son?” the new queen replied harshly.

It wasn’t fair to burden Jon with the weight of a crown he didn’t want, but Sansa counted on him to continue the line of the Starks. 

After Ramsay, there was no way Sansa could ever be with a man the way a wife was with her husband. At times she barely had the strength to keep her lady mask on. Deep inside, she was a terrified young woman who would have hidden from men like Littlefinger, or even Lord Glover. But as the Hound had once told her, the world was built by killers, and she had to get used looking at them. 

Now that she was queen, she would have to not only look at them but actively play the game of thrones with them. Knowing that the last true good man in Westeros was by her side and ready to take over if the worst happened to her was a luxury she didn’t take for granted.

“No, of course not, Sansa, forgive me, I wasn’t thinking…” Jon pleaded, chastised.

They ended up in the lord’s solar—the queen's solar now—and Jon closed the door quietly behind them.

“I forgive you,” Sansa softly replied with a gentle grip of his elbow, “I know that you don’t want to take my birthright or have anyone think that you would. I’ll never thank you enough for this, Jon. I asked you to help me take back our home, and you gave me a whole kingdom.”

As if all the years of fear, resentment, mistrust and insecurity had finally caught up to her, Sansa started sobbing quietly. Of course, Jon was there to embrace her, like her father or Robb always did when she cried as a child.

_ Robb couldn’t spare Jamie Lannister to save me and Arya,_ Sansa reminded herself.

The thought made a dam break in her heart, and the tears she fought so hard to contain poured freely from her eyes unto Jon’s cloak.

“Anything for you, Sansa,” Jon promised as she summoned the traces of strength she had left to stop her sobbing. “Ask me for anything, and if it is within my power I will lay it at your feet.”

“Help me rule the North,” she simply requested, her voice muffled by the fur on Jon’s shoulder.

She absent-mindedly noted that he was warmer than she expected anybody to be, even indoors. She hadn't noted any such detail when they had reunited at Castle Black, her relief to be in the presence of _family_ so great that nothing else had counted.

“Alright.”

“We have so much to do,” Sansa lamented, “organizing my coronation takes precedence over everything else, but before that we need to know if the Vale means to merge with the North, or be an allied kingdom, or…”

“Sansa, breathe,” Jon instructed calmly.

He put his hands on her shoulders, and breathed deeply.

After a few seconds, Sansa matched her breath to his, and felt her whole body relax.

She frowned when she sensed how warm his gloved hands were.

“Jon, are you well?” she asked as she pulled one of her own gloves and reached for his face.

He quickly stepped away, withdrawing his hands from her as if she’d burned him.

“I am fine,” he assured with a shake of his head. 

He looked fine. Sansa knew that he was still recovering from battle wounds, and was belatedly worrying about him suffering from infections, but his skin was not pallid nor too flushed; he was not sweating, his breathing was normal, his eyes were clear. There was no outward sign of sickness in him, but his warmth truly was unlike any she’d felt from a healthy body before.

“Isn’t the decision up to Baelish?” Jon asked, to Sansa’s brief confusion.

“Well, he _ is _ the Lord Protector,” Sansa conceded as she walked to the small desk by the window. “But by siding with us against the Boltons, he implied that the Vale rejected Cersei Lannister as the queen.”

Jon’s scowl demonstrated that he was aware that Baelish was a slippery ally.

Sansa didn’t want her brother and now heir to just have an idea of who Littlefinger was. She wanted him to be prepared to play the game against Baelish.

Sansa resented Littlefinger for selling her to the Boltons, and for making her lie to the lords and ladies of the veil about Aunt Lysa’s death, but without him she probably would’ve been dead a long time ago. Cersei would’ve killed her with her own hands after Joffrey’s death.

“Lord Baelish killed my aunt Lysa Arryn,” she informed Jon, who silently gaped at her. 

“He pushed her through the moon door in front of me, and made me lie that it was an accident,” Sansa added, her voice even.

It seemed so long ago, and at the time Sansa had felt so ashamed for disrespecting her aunt’s memory, whatever the wrongs Lysa had done in her life. But, as she had later told Lyanna Mormont, Sansa had done a lot of regretful things to survive.

And that was exactly what she had done, thanks to her pack. It mattered not to her that Theon or Jon did not have the Stark name. It mattered that they had been the only family left to help her in the world.

Now, with the whole North behind her, Sansa would not just survive. She would thrive, her family and people with her.

"Never trust Lord Baelish, Jon," she instructed firmly, "and always trust that I'd never side with him, regardless of any evidence to the contrary."

Jon nodded solemnly, then froze.

“What of the white walkers?” he asked, his wide eyes mirroring hers.

As unbelievable as his tales of undying monsters were, Sansa knew not to doubt her brother’s words. She had seen a giant with her own eyes, surely there had to be scarier creatures beyond the wall.

“It won’t matter that I am your heir if I die fighting in a war we are more likely to lose than win, Sansa,” Jon argued again. “I’ll gladly accept the title after the war, but before then…”

“Alright, the matter of my heir will be decided in the first council meeting,” Sansa conceded with a short sigh. “But you’ll be part of it, Jon, I won’t have it any other way.”

“And you want me to be what? Lord Commander of the Queensguard?” Jon joked, but quickly sobered up.

Sansa blinked in surprise. Well, Jon had been Lord Commander before. Only this time, she didn’t want him to swear any vow of chastity, not if he was to father the next generation of Starks.

“We don’t have to rule like they do in the South,” Sansa decided as she took a seat, barely stopping herself from falling ungracefully in the chair.

“I will ask Maester Wolkan to look for any archives on the court of the King in the North before Aegon the Conqueror,” she added as she waved Jon to sit on the only other chair in the room in front of her. “I don’t remember Old Nan ever mentioning a Northern Council, but maybe there used to be one.”

“All I want is for you to rule with me in some capacity Jon,” she pleaded, grabbing his warm hand as soon as he put it on the table upon sitting. “You said it yourself, we have to be united. I don’t want to rule over you just because I’m the queen. I want to rule _with_ you. We are the last of the Starks, and—”

“I’m not a Stark,” Jon interrupted her quickly though gently. “I appreciate your sentiment, I truly do, and if I ever father children it would my honor and my future wife’s to have them wear the Stark name, but I am _Jon Snow_. There was a time when I wanted nothing more than to have Father give me his name, but now… I’ve made peace with it. This is who I am.”

Sansa remained silent for a moment, and searched her half-brother’s eyes for any sign or resentment or bitterness. She found none. She nodded her agreement. 

“Thank you Jon,” she whispered, her eyes still locked on his.

“For what?” he asked just as quietly, surprise slightly widening his dark orbs.

“For sheltering me when I had nowhere else to go,” Sansa started as she looked down at their linked hands, rubbing her bare thumb across the back of Jon’s covered hand. “For fighting for our home, for letting me get my revenge on Ramsay…”

She took a quiet, deep breath to recenter herself and chase away the tears threatening to cloud her vision, and looked back at Jon.

“Thank you for not just protecting me, but for giving me the power to protect myself,” she added, her voice shaky despite her best efforts. “I do not deserve your kindness after how I treated you in these very walls when—”

“We’ve been over this, Sansa,” Jon chided her softly before straightening in his chair unexpectedly, retracting his hand from hers. “Gods, I keep calling you Sansa, when I should address you as Your Grace…”

“Don’t you dare!” Sansa exclaimed with mock outrage, a smile stretching her lips as she took in her royal brother’s embarrassment.

Royalty. She was royalty now. This was definitely not what she had wanted when she had been younger and more stupid.

“Please Jon,” she requested as she turned her hand palm up on the table, and Jon eyed it carefully before bringing back his.

He truly was too warm, but Sansa found comfort in the heat he radiated, and gladly interlaced her now cold fingers with his warm ones.

“Everyone else will call me 'Your Grace' from now on,” she pointed out, “and many will think of me as just a figurehead. You’ve known me since I was born, you’re my brother. I don’t want you to call me anything other than my given name. You can be formal all you want about my title when you are talking with other people.”

“Alright Sansa,” Jon agreed with one of his brief smiles.

She wished he’d smile genuinely, or laugh like he had at Castle Black when she’d choked on the terrible ale. The sound of his mirth had been music to her ears then, had brought her back to the days when he, Theon and Robb would mock Bran in the training yard.

He was _ home _, she realized only now. The castle they stood in were not home without another Stark with her there.

Which reminded her.

“We need a stone master for Rickon’s statue,” she declared with emotion, which was quickly reflected on Jon’s face.

“I’m so sorry Sansa,” he said as he brought his other hand on top of their connected ones, “I should’ve listened to you, you warned me about Ramsay using Rickon…”

“He would have killed him anyway,” Sansa reassured him, though she knew her words didn’t mitigate their grief one bit, “Rickon was the rightful heir to Winterfell, he was a threat to Ramsay's rule. He only let him live that long so he could destabilize you. He would have killed him anyway.”

She returned the sympathetic squeeze from Jon’ hands, and naively wished they could share a hug right then. Feeling his arms around her—his embrace had also been abnormally warm, now that she remembered it—had been the best feeling in the world since her father had been beheaded. Being in the presence of her family, of the man who reminded her so much of her gentle if aloof father, brought immeasurable comfort to Sansa.

Frantic knocks to the door prevented her to request that embrace from Jon, who quickly stood to attention. 

The servant who was allowed in was one of the Bolton’s, Talina, but the young woman had quickly become one of Sansa’s allies, bringing her moon tea when neither Ramsay or Miranda were watching her.

“Lady Bol…Lady Stark, forgive me!” the poor girl stuttered, clearly unsure about how to address her mistress.

“It’s ‘Your Grace’” Jon instructed softly, and the servant stared alternatively between them two with wide eyes, speechless.

“What is it?” Sansa asked, worried about the panicked state of Talina. Despite her understandable fear of Ramsay, the young woman had always been level-headed, a fact for which Sansa had been grateful.

“Maester Wolkan is asking for your audience, mila—Your Grace,” Talina said quickly, her composure restored. “At the Rookery, Your Grace. Many ravens have arrived.”

Sansa exchanged a wary look with Jon, neither of them convinced that a great volume of correspondence augured well for the start of her reign.


	2. The Crown Prince of the North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa read letters, and Jon finally knows something.
> 
> Make sure to read chapter 3 as well!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not as good as in the corresponding two seconds of my dream, but reality is often disappointing, right? Anyway, I am posting the much more interesting chapter 3 along with this (also in Jon's POV) just in case chapter 2 is underwhelming.
> 
> Unbeta'd, feel free to point out mistakes.

“This one is from Castle Black, Your Grace,” Maester Volkan informed before passing the last scroll of the pile to Sansa, who frowned at it before giving to Jon.

He held her neutral gaze for a heartbeat before breaking the seal he was so familiar with and unrolling the parchment.

_ To Jon Snow _

_ Did you save your brother from the Boltons? _

Jon blinked as a sharp stab of grief pierced his heart at the thought of Rickon, and he briefly resented Edd for the inquiry.

The former lord commander gasped audibly when he read the next line of the message.

_ There’s another one here who claims to also be your brother. Says his name is Bran. I remember you mentioning a cripple, and this one can’t use his legs t̶o̶o̶ either. He gets pulled by a girl, if you’d believe it. Thought she was a wildling, but she’s from South of the Wall. Is it getting colder down there too? _

_ Anyway, I hope everything worked out for you and your sister in Winterfell. Don’t forget us up here. A bit of grain and p̶r̶o̶p̶e̶r̶ ̶a̶l̶e̶ new recruits would help. _

_ We’re holding an election for the new Lord Commander on the morrow. Seems like I might actually keep the bloody job. _

_ I don’t know how I’m supposed to close an official letter, but you do, right? Should’ve stayed a few days to teach me. _

_ Eddison Tollett, _

_ acting Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. _

“What does it say? Jon!” Sansa’s frantic voice called him.

Jon looked at her, and was surprised to see his sister shake, her hands barely holding onto another scroll.

Jon belatedly realized that the maester had left them alone. That was very likely the only reason Sansa was letting her emotions show in her sky blue eyes.

“What is it, Sansa?” he asked as he carefully stepped closer to her.

Sometimes she startled at his proximity, and Jon suspected that it was a reaction ingrained in her from her experience as a captive, first by the Lannisters then by the Boltons. Jon almost regretted not killing Ramsay himself.

This time, Sansa didn’t even blink at his approach. Her eyes kept staring at him with wonder, tears filling them.

“Arya,” the young woman whispered as she extended the letter —she was so young still, gods, what had he been thinking, burdening her with the responsibility of ruling the whole North?

_ Arya? _The other voice in his head reminded him, though not so much in a spoken sentence than in a silent beastly whine.

“Arya?” Jon asked out loud as he snatched the scroll with one hand, though he kept his eyes on Sansa.

After he stared at her for a minute, he remembered the unbelievable news he’d just read himself.

“Bran is alive,” he informed as he offered her Edd’s message, and she grabbed it swiftly to read it.

After taking a centering breath, Jon looked down at the scroll from—the Twins? Yes, that was the seal of House Frey.

Did the Freys have Arya? Gods, please, no. They’d already taken Robb!

_ To the Boltons, _

_ You are next on my list. In a fortnight, every single one of you will be gone from the walls of Winterfell, your flayed bodies left to freeze in the cold winds. _

_ You killed the Young Wolf, but not his entire pack. Leave one wolf alive and the sheep are never safe. Ask the Freys. Ah, but they’re all dead. _

_ I am coming for the She-Wolf. You thought you could take control of the North through her because she’s an obedient Lady, but I will show you what a woman can do with a Needle. _

_ Winter has come, and you will pay for wronging the Starks. _

It wasn’t signed, but the multiple references to wolves and winter, referring to Sansa as a Lady, with a capital l, the name of Sansa’s direwolf…

And Needle.

Arya. His fierce little sister had survived. And so had Bran.

Jon felt the pain of losing Rickon anew. If only he’d been faster, or smarter, all his younger siblings would’ve been able to return home.

Sansa’s unexpected embrace brought him out of his lament, and he returned it tightly, letting himself indulge in the sweet flowery scent of her hair, in the milder warmth of her body, in the happiness of finding family again. His relief at the good news was even strong enough to quiet the guilty part of him that enjoyed having Sansa in his arms for another reason.

“I told you,” Sansa said with a short laugh as she pulled away, grabbing Jon’s forearm as if to support herself. “I told you, we’d take back Winterfell not just for us, but for them too. They’re coming home. We’re not the last of the Starks!”

Jon flinched just as his half-sister froze, and he wondered if they had shared the same thought.

The thought that they didn’t have to cling to each other like lifelines anymore, now that they weren't the only two left in their family.

After Robb, Bran had been Sansa’s favorite sibling. With Rickon gone because of Jon, she’d undoubtedly distance herself from him to dote on her last trueborn brother.

Similarly, Jon could not wait to reconnect with Arya, who had been his closest sibling among all the Starks. She had never acknowledged his bastard status, and had defied her lady mother to play with him. He himself had defied their lord father to teach her how to use a bow. He'd even commissioned Needle without Lord Stark's approval.

On the one hand, Jon was immensely proud of Arya not only for surviving this dangerous world, but for apparently learning how to defend herself using the sword he had made for her. 

On the other hand, Jon was fearful to learn what his baby sister had gone through to change so, for she had changed just as clearly as Sansa had from the time they had all left Winterfell. While Sansa had become kinder and more thoughtful, Arya sounded disturbingly dangerous, and was so brash that she'd send deadly threats to a whole army of her family’s enemies right after decimating another.

“Do you think the Lords will,” Sansa started hesitantly as she dropped her hands from him, the scroll from Castle Black fluttering to the ground a few feet away from them.

“What?” Jon asked, unsure of what his sister—half-sister—meant to say.

“Bran is the true heir of Winterfell,” Sansa reminded him as she turned around and crouched down to pick up the fallen scroll. “He’ll be crowned king.”

When she faced Jon back, her lady mask was back on her face. That neutral expression reminded Jon of Lady Catelyn Stark, the woman who had wished for his death so many times.

“No, Sansa, of course not, Bran won’t be crowned king over you,” Jon asserted. “I’m so glad that he’s alive, and that he’s coming home, but—he’s a cripple, he can’t rule, and might not even want to produce heirs. He very likely won't want the crown. This doesn’t change anything.”

Sansa walked to the maester’s desk, rolling back Edd’s letter and putting it away in a drawer before running her knuckles over the last unsealed missive.

Jon tried to make out the image on the seal when Sansa’s cold, detached voice addressed him.

“Thank you, Jon, I appreciate your support,” she said quietly with a nod, her eyes down on the still closed message. “I know you must think me shallow, to fret over my title while I should be thanking the gods for returning my trueborn brother.”

“Of course not, Sansa,” he replied just as flatly, his mind focused on her last words.

Trueborn brother. 

True. Real.

Bran was indeed the only brother Sansa should cherish, not Jon. She was right to remind him that he didn't compare to Ned Stark's youngest surviving child.

Jon then thought of his first conversation with Tyrion Lannister, all these years ago in the castle yard.

_ Let me give you some advice, bastard. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you. _

Jon wondered if the dwarf was still alive.

Jon had tried to follow his advice, and had mostly succeeded. He’d just been momentarily misguided by Sansa’s sisterly affection. He'd been close to hoping that the two of them could indeed stand on equal foot in the new Winterfell, but that had always been impossible.

And now that she knew that her real siblings were on their way home, she didn’t have to pretend to love Jon like a true brother. 

“Who is that last letter from?” the bastard of Winterfell asked his queen.

“Another queen, it seems,” Sansa said cryptically as she broke the seal.

Before he could ask for clarification, Jon saw the sigil on the split wax.

The three-headed dragon.

House Targaryen.

Jon’s mind immediately went to Maester Aemon, who had died peacefully of old age, a forgotten prince of fire taking his last breath in the bitter cold of the North.

Then he was directed to the only other Targaryen left in the world: Daenerys Targaryen.

In one of his last messages from the Citadel, Sam had shared with Jon news of the world beyond Westeros. One such news was the rise of Daenerys Targaryen as Queen of the Bay of Dragons—formerly called Slaver’s Bay.

What business had the Dragon Queen with Winterfell?

Jon observed Sansa’s reaction to the content of the message, and was surprised to see her eyes widen in shock right away. She reclaimed her lady mask quickly, but then scowled before taking her eyes away from the paper, her face smoothing again into her unreadable expression as she looked back at him.

“We’re not the only ones who returned home,” the queen in the North commented somberly as she extended the scroll to Jon.

He took it gingerly, making sure to avoid contact with her hand.

As he read along, the former brother of the Night’s Watch felt his eyebrows lift impossibly high on his forehead.

_ To The Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North _

_ In the name of Queen Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen, First of her name _

_ the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains, Queen of Dragons Bay. _

_ You are invited to Dragonstone to bend the knee and swear your allegiance to your true queen. _

_ Renounce your undeserved loyalty to Cersei Lannister and join House Tyrell of the Reach and House Martell of Dorne as a supporter of Her Grace Queen Daenerys in her campaign to reclaim her ancestor’s seat of power. Be on the winning side of the last War of Westeros, for the Dragon Queen has come to break the wheel of oppression and restore peace to the lands of her people. _

_ Her Grace Queen Daenerys is the daughter of King Aerys II Targaryen, and the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, the rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms. _

_ Written and signed by the Hand of the Queen _

_ Tyrion Lannister _

Jon was aware that he was gaping, but he couldn’t help it.

He’d just wondered if the dwarf had survived the attacks of his own family, and there was the proof that Lord Lannister was not just alive, but elevated to the title of Hand of a powerful queen.

_ You are invited to Dragonstone to bend the knee and swear your allegiance to your true queen. _

“A bit dramatic, even for Lord Tyrion,” Sansa commented nonchalantly.

“He wants you to bend the knee to a Targaryen?” Jon wondered out loud. “Her house lost all right to the Iron Throne before you were even born! She is _ not _ the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms!”

And who in their right mind would sail to Dragonstone if there were three dragons flying over it…

Dragonstone. Dragons.

“Fuck,” Jon whispered.

“Jon!” Sansa chided him loudly.

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologized with a wave of his hand before bringing a finger to the scroll. “But, Sansa, this dragon queen might be our only hope against the real enemy.”

“You mean those white walkers? Wights?” the redhead asked with a frown.

“Yes,” Jon confirmed. “The revived dead can be defeated with fire, valyrian steel, or dragonglass.”

“There aren’t many swords made of valyrian steel,” Sansa reflected out loud. “But there are ores of dragonglass in Westeros, aren’t there?”

“The most abundant mine being on Dragonstone,” the warrior informed her as he tapped the paper carrying the dwarf’s message.

For the first time since Hardhome, Jon felt hope about the outcome of the war against the dead.

“And dragons breathe fire," he added. "They can attack from above. They can help minimize the human loss against the army of the dead.”

“Are you suggesting that I abdicate the crown of the North and bend the knee to Daenerys Targaryen in exchange for her help to save the whole continent?” the newly named queen asked, her voice half a pitch higher than normal.

“What does it matter who is queen of what throne if we all die?” Jon argued as gently as he could.

It wasn't as if Sansa wouldn't still be the leader of the North. The Dragon Queen would only be a figurehead in the minds of people living so far away from King's Landing, just like it had been when Lord Stark had ruled under the reign of Robert Baratheon.

Sansa would still rule the North, but to do so she and her people had to stay alive first.

“What queen would you be if you didn’t sacrifice your pride for the good of your people? The good of the living?”

“To the Seven Hells with my pride!” Sansa talked back, loudly. “This isn’t about it!”

Jon blinked at her vehemence, and also at the memory of a similar conversation invading his mind. He had exchanged almost the exact same words with Mance Rayder, not so many moons ago.

“I begged for Father’s life to his enemies,” Sansa reminded him, the dangerous edge of her voice bringing Jon back to the present.

“I kneeled and proclaimed Joffrey Baratheon my king knowing that he was the fruit of Lannister incest, and thanked him for his mercy after his guards were done beating me," the young woman added with emotion. "I was married to the Imp, I passed for Littlefinger’s bastard daughter to escape Cersei’s wrath, I married the bastard son of Robb’s murderer just to come home, I endured his violation of my body day and night—”

“Sansa,” Jon gasped, aghast.

“And I begged for the help of the very man who sold me to Ramsay to win our home back!” Sansa finished sharply. “Do not think for a moment that you can accuse me of caring about my pride, Jon!”

“Sansa, I’m sorry, forgive me,” he pleaded quietly, lifting his hands in a placating movement.

He had to look down in shame, not only for offending his queen, but for thinking that his sister—half-sister—was enticingly beautiful in her fury.

The image of her flushed cheeks, glinting eyes, and the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she labored to take breaths raised the temperature of his already abnormally hot blood.

Jon wished he could attribute his physical attraction to his flustered sister to her resemblance to Ygritte. But the trueborn lady and the wildling woman had nothing in common beyond the color of their hair.

No, the depraved desire Jon periodically felt for Catelyn Stark’s daughter, for his own half-sister, didn't stem from any mistaken identity.

If Catelyn Stark had known that Jon would grow up, not to covet Sansa's birthright but to cover Sansa herself, she would have strangled him to death long ago.

Jon was ashamed that while Sansa trusted him, he was no better than all the men that had wronged her, all the men he was supposed to protect her _from_.

Had he come back wrong, somehow, when Melissandre’s Lord of Light had granted him a second life?

Maybe the red priestess' magic was the cause of his unnatural desire for his sister, just as Jon guessed that it was responsible for his newfound ability to warg into Ghost, and for his body being so damn warm, and for the healed skin of his burned hand.

At least Jon was aware of his sin against his sweet sister. He could fight it. He had to.

“You’re the one who crowned me, Jon,” Sansa pointed out quietly, taking his mind away from his guilt, “and now you want me to give that crown away for a woman who has spent her whole life in a foreign land? We aren’t _her_ people, and we don’t need her to save us. She is an Essossi queen, we are of Westeros.”

“We are of the _ North_, our kingdom newly restored, our people freed because _ you and I _ decided to fight for what was right. And what is right is for _us_ to rule from the seat of power of _ our _ ancestors.”

Pieces of past conversations--not just with Mance but with Stannis and Ser Davos and Melissandre, even with Alliser Thorne--slotted together in Jon's mind, coming together as one picture of absolute truth.

He knew now. So many people had accused Jon of not understanding the stakes of the multiple wars he’d joined or avoided, and back then he indeed had known nothing. He hadn’t understood Mance’s obstinence not to kneel, or Stannis Baratheon’s willingness to convert to an obscure religion to win the Iron Throne.

He hadn’t fully understood Sansa’s perseverance during their war campaign, hadn’t understood her stubbornness in the face of repeated rejection when calling on the Northern banners to fight the Bolton’s superior army.

But he’d said it himself when the Lords and Lady had tried to offer him Sansa’s stolen birthright. He’d vaguely understood the real stakes of the war he’d just fought, hadn’t praised Sansa but simply stated facts about her character and actions.

But now he knew.

This wasn’t about pride. This was about honor.

Not the rigid honor that got Eddard Stark killed, or Robb deserted, and that had Jon himself betrayed.

This was an honor that would slow the hands of killers, that would still the feet of deserters, and would inspire the deepest loyalty, because it was rooted in the promise for a better future for the majority, not just the contentment of the few.

Jon hadn’t known what he had been fighting for, but now he knew. And he would keep fighting, even harder than before.

“You are right, Your Grace, and I beg your forgiveness for my insolence,” Jon apologized formally, standing tall before bowing slightly.

“Jon, what are you doing?” Sansa questioned, alarm in her voice.

He was doing what he had sworn to do all these years ago, what he had always been meant to do.

_ I am the shield that guards the realms of men. _

“I think that you should make me your heir after all," he amended as he straightened his back. "That way I can request your permission to negotiate an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen in your name,” he added, remaining calm while Sansa was still unnerved by his formality.

“Once you and your council agree upon a prize to offer the Dragon Queen in exchange for her help in the fight against the army of the dead, I will sail for Dragonstone, Your Grace.”

“Jon, I told you to just call me Sansa,” his sister reminded him hesitantly.

“But you are not just Sansa anymore, Your Grace,” he objected as he finally looked her in the eyes. 

“Your are the Queen in the North, and if you formally name me the Heir Prince,” he proposed, his mind working out the possible outcomes of Sansa's first council meeting, “If you also name me the Commander of your army, then you won't have to go to Dragonstone, I could represent the crown of the North to talk to the Dragon Queen. I could help us prepare for the great war.”

He couldn’t be sure, but Jon thought that he felt Ghost whine sadly all the way from the godswood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of the letters though? Was the format okay? I might have a couple more letters in store, so any feedback on that would be nice.
> 
> I hope that by now you've realized that this is a Jonsa fic—but not an anti-Daenerys fic. I like the Dragon Queen very much, whether she's being nice or fire-crazy. She's just not the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, that's a fact not an opinion.


	3. Ned Stark's Bastard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Littlefinger tries to engage Jon in a conversation. He gets to speak with Sansa instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revamped the Jon/Littlefinger crypts scene from 7x02 because it's a cool scene, from a pro-Stark standpoint but also from a Jonsa standpoint. The call back to Ned gave me so much hope back then!
> 
> Unbeta'd, grammar Nazis are welcome to correct me!

After Sansa had promised to bring Jon’s offer to the first council meeting, another servant had come to warn them about a fight amongst the guests.

It had only been a few Free Folks ‘stretching their legs’ in the courtyard outside the guest hall, so Jon had made sure to relocate them on the other side of the bridge towards the armory.

Sansa’s attention had then been taken by Maester Volkan, which left Jon to busy himself with the oversight of the correct maintenance of all the camps outside of the East Gate. He ordered and supervised idle soldiers to plow a path outside the Hunter’s Gate in preparation for hunting parties to provide sufficient game for the coronation feast, and asked a Northern matron ordering servants around to let her know about any necessary physical labor required for the coronation preparation.

He talked with Tormund, who requested an audience with Sansa—_“no rush Snow, I know she’s busy dealing with the rest of you kneelers” _—then asked each Northern Lord he encountered to do a headcount of their soldiers.

Jon was surprised that it was still daylight by the time the rumbles of his empty stomach became loud enough that they started drawing him concerned looks. Before he could return to the Great Hall, he decided to pay a visit to his father’s remains. He surmised that he wouldn’t be given many other opportunities to do so later.

Grateful that torches had already been lit—not surprising, as Sansa had been Lady of Winterfell for almost a year before she joined him at Castle Black—Jon lit a few candles around the most recently carved corner of the crypts so he could gaze at the statue of Lord Eddard Stark.

Squinting slightly to reconcile the stone-carved figure with the memories that he had of his Lord Father, Jon reminisced the last conversation he’d had with him. Jon had asked about his mother before departing for the Wall.

_ The next time we see each other, we'll talk about your_ _mother_,_Hmm? l promise. _

What other promises had Eddard Stark made to his children that he had not been able to fulfill? 

Protecting Sansa and Arya in King’s Landing had been one of them. Arya had been able to escape, but Sansa had been hostage to the Lannisters for years before she was whisked away by Petyr Baelish, just to become a prisoner in her own home, at the mercy of the sick Bolton Bastard.

Jon frowned as he wondered if being deranged was, as superstitious people all over Westeros claimed, the nature of illegitimate children of noblemen.

Was his desire for Sansa just the beginning of a greater sickness? Was it not at all related to his soul being returned broken to his body after his death, but rather an inevitable trait he shared with all bastard children of great lords?

If his corruption came from his blood, and not from magic, then he had better chances of overcoming it. Going away to Dragonstone, putting distance between him and Sansa would help.

He did not like the idea of leaving her alone in Winterfell, but maybe Bran or Arya would return before he went South. 

He wouldn’t wait for his other siblings to depart, however. Sansa and Jon had agreed not to make the news of Arya and Bran’s survival public yet, and anyway they had to prepare for the war against the army of the dead. The enemy never rested, so Jon couldn’t delayed his mission to enlist the help of Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons.

If only there was a way to guarantee that the other lords would leave before him, especially Lord Baelish…

“I delivered his bones myself,” the unfamiliar voice of Littlefinger came behind him as if summoned by Jon’s thought.

Jon briefly turned towards the stranger, internally chastising himself for not hearing him arrive.

“I presented them to Lady Catelyn as a gesture of goodwill from Tyrion Lannister,” Baelish added as he approached Jon despite Jon’s obvious demand to stay away as he turned back around to face his father.

“It seems like a lifetime ago,” the Southerner added as he reached Jon, taking half a step closer to Lord Stark’s statue than Jon was, faking to inspect the carver’s work. “Do give Lord Tyrion my best when you see him.”

How did he know about Lord Tyrion? Sansa had warned Jon that Littlefinger had eyes and ears everywhere, but it still unnerved him that this stranger could so casually flaunt his knowledge of his family’s affairs.

“I was sorry when he died,” the older man said with his eyes on Lord Stark’s statue, oblivious to or more likely ignoring Jon’s telling silence. “Your father and I had our differences but he loved Cat very much. So did I.”

Littlefinger turned to Jon, his satisfied air grating on the nerves of the illegitimate son of Ned Stark.

“She wasn't fond of you, was she?” the Southerner asked, and he probably had expected Jon’s cold silence for he kept going only after a beat. “Well, it appears she vastly underestimated you. Your father and brothers are gone, yet here you stand, heir to the throne of the North. The last best hope against the coming storm.”

Again, another piece of information that hadn’t been meant public. Rumors about the wights were spreading throughout the North, but no one had confirmed that there was a whole army of undead marching for the Wall.

Done suffering his presence, Jon turned fully to face Baelish.

“You don't belong down here,” he pointed out, satisfied that his disused voice made him sound even more brooding.

“Forgive me,” Littlefinger said as he turned to face him in turn. “We have never talked properly. I wanted to remedy that.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Jon let him know before stepping away.

He hadn’t put five paces between them that the Southerners called out to him.

“Not even thank you? If it weren't for me you'd have been slaughtered at that battlefield.”

Yes, Jon was aware of that, which was the only reason why the weasel had not tasted the valyrian steel of Longclaw.

“You have many enemies, bastard,” Lord Baelish added, and Jon was sick of hearing his Southern accent, “but I swear to you I'm not one of them. I love Sansa as I loved her mother.”

Jon’s right hand thrust out of its own volition, easily finding Baelish’s throat. Jon stepped closer to the older man and pushed him against the wall closest to Lord Stark’s statue.

Lord Baelish whined as he vainly tried to writhe away from Jon’s chokehold, which only made Jon squeeze his hand—the healed one—around the Southerner’s neck. 

“Jon!” Sansa’s voice resonated behind him, the sound of her voice ricocheting against the dark corners of the place, making his name echo over and over around him.

“Your Grace,” Lord Baelish greeted with difficulty, his neck still vulnerable underneath Jon’s hand.

“Jon, let him go!” Sansa’s voice came again, accompanied by her gloved hands on his free arm. “What are you doing?”

The bastard prince of Winterfell spared one last warning glare at Baelish before withdrawing his hand.

Sansa’s grip on his arm tightened briefly before she let go, and as he turned towards her he saw her face shed her panicked expression to done her lady mask—though he probably should name it her queen mask now—and straighten to her superior height.

“What is the meaning of this, Lord Baelish?”

If the current Lord Protector of the Vale was shocked that Sansa was questioning him rather than Jon, he didn’t show it.

The older man simply straighten his clothes and curtsied dramatically.

“Queen Sansa,” he started, throwing a glance at Jon as he lifted back up.

Jon would have appreciated the new rasp he had forced on Baelish’s voice if it hadn’t made him sound like he was defiling Sansa’s name.

“I was merely sharing my intention to support your reign with your bastard brother,” the lord finished evenly, his tone aggravatingly diplomatic.

“My heir,” Sansa corrected, just as pleasantly—with a nod, even—before she turned her gaze on Jon. “And what did Lord Baelish share with you that elicited such an uncouth reaction, Jon?”

He couldn’t pinpoint what exactly in her features had changed, but Jon felt chastised by the mildly delivered words. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t find the wits to answer without verbally offending their ally.

“Ah, your heir was rightfully surprised by my admission to wanting your hand in marriage,” Littlefinger imparted just as smoothly.

This time, Sansa’s mask fell off her lovely face, and for an ephemeral moment Jon saw a melee of expressions on her face, fear and revulsion the greatest contestants.

Then her composure was back on, though she did frown down at Baelish.

“Marriage, Lord Baelish?” she said coldly. “I am the Queen in the North, the daughter of the union of two great houses of Westeros, the closest relative to the heir of a third great house of Westeros. What makes you believe that you are a worthy prospect for the position of Lord Consort of the North?”

_Lord_ Consort? Jon had not expected the title of Sansa’s potential husband to be so...Restrictive. Shouldn’t the consort of a queen be at least a prince?

Then again, Sansa had no intention to marry. Maybe she meant to dissuade Northern lords from entertaining the thought of proposing by giving such the title such an unappealing prospect.

“Why, Your Grace,” Balish replied smoothly, “I believe that being the Lord Protector of the Vale, a strategically important kingdom of Westeros that supports your claim yet aims at remaining neutral in your conflict against Cersei Lannister, would make me the perfect candidate for Lord Consort of the North.”

Jon stepped forward with the intention to hit the insolent man, but a shift in Sansa’s posture kept his feet grounded where he stood between his sister and her unreliable friend.

“The Vale cannot claim impartiality when its army helped us reclaim Winterfell,” the Queen in the North argued evenly.

“Reclaim it from Lord Bolton’s bastard, who had murdered his own father, who himself had been appointed as the Warden in the North by King Joffrey,” Baelish pointed out.

What in the name of the Old gods was that mockingbird implying?

“So you came to my aid in the name of Cersei Lannister, is that what you are saying, Lord Baelish?” Sansa questioned with a frown as she took a threatening step towards the lesser lord.

The older man did not look one bit worried by the menacing tone of the monarch, and Jon could understand why.

Baelish had thousands of knights of the Vale at his command, camping just outside the walls of Winterfell. Lord Royce himself, the most powerful Arryn bannerman and adviser of Sansa’s cousin Robin, was a guest in the castle. No harm could come to the Lord Protector of the Vale without dire repercussions to the yet official reign of Sansa—the Gentle She-wolf, soldiers had already nicknamed her, to Jon’s dismay.

“You misunderstood me, your Grace,” Baelish objected with a falsely respectful bow of his head. “The Vale joined forces with the Starks for the simple and very much neutral reason to restore a great house to its seat of power. You were the rightful Lady of Winterfell when we joined the battle against Ramsay Snow, whose legitimization was unknown to the current queen of Westeros. It was duty to the good people of the North that compelled us to ride to your aid. Queen Cersei would not condemn us for restoring order and peace back to one of her kingdoms.”

Jon wished he’d taken Longclaw with him, if not to decapitate the snake’s head then to at least scare him with the threat of death.

What a convoluted plot! How twisted was the Lannister woman, if she could be convinced of Baelish’s ‘neutrality’ with such unconvincing arguments?

Or maybe that argument was perfectly sound in the mind of Southerners, for Sansa herself did not express any outrage at Littlefinger’s words.

Her frown had deepened, but her gaze remained merely inquisitive.

Fighting the urge to pummel Baelish as brutally as he had hit Ramsay, Jon stood passively as he observed two players of ‘the game’ spar with their words.

“The North will always be in your debt for benefitting from your honorable intervention, Lord Baelish,” Sansa declared flatly.

“Think nothing of it, Your Grace,” the lord replied sweetly, _ smiling _. “I would have come to the aid of any other great house of Westeros.”

“Then the Vale remains neutral to any conflict extending beyond regional borders?” Sansa inquired calmly.

Jon was about to internally sigh in relief, expecting confirmation from Lord Baelish, when he saw the older man’s smile widen.

“I’m afraid that I cannot make such promise for the future, Your Grace,” Baelish stated. “You see, Queen Cersei is unwed, and to consolidate her claim to the throne, she has decided to marry a worthy lord of Westeros. She is still young, and can give birth to an heir. I am to ride to King’s Landing to attend the feast during which she will announce the name of the _ Prince _ Consort of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Jon’s hands balled into fists as he saw Sansa’s cheeks flush with anger, though surprisingly the rest of her face remained impassive.

“And I suppose that you will present yourself at the feast as a suitor of Cersei Lannister?” the Queen in the North stated more than she asked.

“You would suppose correctly, Your Grace,” Lord Baelish confirmed with an inclined nod of his head. “I am to depart in a fortnight, but I hope to be given a compelling reason to remain in Winterfell. Political neutrality aside, I do cherish our friendship, Queen Sansa. It would be an honor to be granted a permanent seat at your dinner table.”

Jon wasn’t aware that he had stepped towards Littlefinger until Sansa’s hand stilled him.

Which was a shame because Baelish decided right then to chuckle.

“Of course, if my presence in Winterfell makes other members of your court uncomfortable…” the older man said, purposely letting his voice trail.

“Prince Jon only means to protect what little virtue I have left, do not begrudge him his fraternal duty, My Lord,” Sansa offered off-handedly, as if her delicate fingers were not the only thing shielding her guest from certain harm.

All three of them knew that by a permanent seat at Sansa’s dinner table, Baelish meant a permanent space in her _bedchamber_. 

Jon wanted to hurt Littlefinger all the more because the older man was able to express his desire for Sansa so shamelessly while Jon’s guilt barely let him breathe for being attracted to his sister.

Even as he stood there, mere feet away from his Lord Father’s tomb, Jon wanted nothing more than to grab Sansa’s hand, to remove the glove covering it before bringing it to his lips; to kiss it while holding her gaze and to promise her that he’d protect her from Lord Baelish and any other man who would presume to ask her hand in marriage.

Had Jon been Sansa’s trueborn brother, he would’ve been able to do just that, because then he would have been King in the North. Rightfully.

As it was, he’d given Sansa the power to protect herself, and wouldn’t overstep his boundaries as her heir unless she asked it of him.

“Jon Snow won’t have to suffer my presence for much longer,” Lord Baelish announced more somberly as he took a step back and away from the two of them. “After your coronation I will depart promptly, Your Grace.”

“Unless I give you a permanent seat at my table,” Sansa recited flatly, her hand squeezing Jon’s wrist before letting go.

Was that gesture supposed to be a coded message? Jon could not make sense of it.

“Yes, that is the only acceptable condition to reject the invitation of the Queen of Westeros, Your Grace,” Littlefinger reiterated with his smile back on.

“Then a seat at my table you shall have, Lord Baelish,” Sansa declared with a slight lift of her chin.

Jon gasped before sharply turning his head towards her.

“Sansa,” he tried to stop her from making an honor-bound promise.

“Just to clarify, Your Grace,” Baelish spoke over him, and the Queen in the North had her uncontested attention, her eyes ignoring Jon who was standing closer.

“You are giving me your blessings to officially court you, and to introduce myself as a candidate for the role of Lord Consort of the North after your coronation?” the Lord Protector of the Vale asked formally.

“No,” Sansa said, and Jon saw his frown mirrored on the older man. 

“I am offering you the title of Hand to the Queen, Lord Baelish,” she added solemnly.

Jon choked on air.

Although this was the North, the assumption that the Hand of the King was traditionally the most powerful man in Westeros remained just as strong as in the South.

The Hand to the Queen in the North was certainly bound to have more power than the Lord Consort of the North.

“The Queen of one kingdom,” Baelish pointed out, heedless of the offense his words implied.

“I received Lady Brienne’s message that my uncle Lord Edmure Tully has been named Lord Paramount of the Trident,” Sansa imparted to Jon’s shock.

Truly, Sansa didn’t mean to give this man power over her kingdom? Over her people?

Over even Jon too?

“You and I know that his bannermen think him unfit for the title,” the Queen in the North claimed evenly, “and they would gladly follow a more… Independent leader, someone who is not a mere pawn of House Lannister. Someone with family ties to House Tully and will not rest until duty, and honor are restored in the Riverlands.”

“Someone who looks exactly like Catelyn Stark, née Tully, beloved and dearly missed by the people of the Riverlands,” Littlefinger added himself, his eyes sparking with more than the dim lights of the torches and candles lighting the crypts.

“And if rumors are to be believed, the Twins are up for the taking,” the conniving Lord added with a glance at Jon.

Was he uncomfortable laying down his cards in front of him? That was poor recompense for Jon’s restraint.

“Would the Vale remain neutral if I were to claim the Riverlands as part of my kingdom?” Sansa asked as she clasped her hands in front of her.

“Sansa!” Jon couldn’t help but intervene now.

He had no intention of leading an army southbound when all their military resources should be focused to defend the realm of the living against the army of the dead!

“Yes, Jon?” the queen acknowledged him, but barely, and he clearly heard the sigh of exasperation in her voice.

Jon also detected the uplift of Littlefinger’s mouth.

“You shouldn’t make hasty decisions before even holding your first council meeting,” he advised as calmly as he could. “And planning an invasion of the Riverlands? The Lords and Lady Mormont won’t stand for it!”

“After my coronation, their opinions will be just that, opinions,” Sansa pointed out as she lifted her chin even higher, looking down at Jon.

Jon could painfully confirm that Sansa looked exactly like her Lady mother at this very moment, and a shiver of discomfort rolled down his spine at the memory of Lady Stark.

What was he even doing here, down in the crypts? He didn’t belong here.

He wasn't a Stark.

“Then I propose that we set things in motion to prepare for your swift overtaking of your dear mother’s homelands,” Littlefinger said as he stepped forward.

Quick to offer a helping hand and quicker to betray. Jon’s urge to kill him had redoubled.

“Not until I have the guarantee that the same Knights of the Vale who fought for me won’t suddenly side with Cersei when she declares war against me,” Sansa objected as she lifted a hand, her palm facing Lord Baelish.

“I know it is not official yet,” the mockingbird argued, “but as your Hand, I would advise you to invite Robin to your coronation and convince him to join your kingdom. Or I could obtain his written permission to kneel in his stead. After all, the status of heir to the throne of the North is more prestigious than the status of Warden of the East.”

Jon’s heart skipped a beat just as Sansa’s outstretched hand lowered, slowly.

“Second in line to the throne,” Jon’s sister—half-sister, he had to remember that, always—bargained.

“Do you think the Lords of the Riverlands will accept you as their queen if you let your bastard brother, the one indelible stain in your mother’s life, come before your trueborn cousin, another grandchild to Lord Hoster Tully?”

It was Jon’s turn to take a step back, to attempt to escape this conversation.

“The Riverlands are not part of my kingdom right now, and neither is the Vale” Sansa reminded, and then glared at Jon, who belatedly remembered her warning.

_ Always trust that I'd never side with him, regardless of any evidence to the contrary. _

Regaining his composure, Jon stood straight and tall, and spared a neutral glance at the frowning Lord Baelish before focusing on Sansa again.

“And until you are officially my Hand, Lord Baelish,” she said with the most condescending tone she had used in this whole conversation, “Your advice holds as much power as the Lords and Ladies' opinion. I am under no obligation to heed it.”

“Of course, Sansa—Your Grace—I only meant to,” Littlefinger started.

“That will be all, Lord Baelish,” Sansa cut him off. “If you’ll excuse us, my brother and I are here to honor our father’s memory.”

The dismissal was more curt than Jon would have expected from the ever polite Sansa, but she was queen and in her home, so it did not surprise him that Littlefinger quietly bowed his head before obediently walking away.

Jon remained silent until the footsteps of the Southerner could not be heard anymore.

Sansa sighed just as he did, and he hesitantly returned her smile when they locked eyes.

“At least you won’t face Daenerys Targaryen and Lord Tyrion alone,” she told him with a satisfied nod.

“What do you mean?” Jon asked, dread settling in his still battle sore body.

“Both you and Lord Baelish will represent me in the court of Daenerys Targaryen,” Sansa decreated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of the verbal sparring between Baelish and Sansa? I believe that the whole idea of Littlefinger being Sansa's hand is my own, but it's based on the multiple theories claiming that Sansa would betray Jon and side with Baelish. Not on my watch!


	4. The Three-Eyed-Raven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran is having an identity crisis, because he's still a human being despite having the powers of the Three-Eyed Raven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Except for a little exposition, there isn't much to this chapter other than the build-up of the Meera/Bran romantic pairing. These two had great chemistry on screen (probably unintentional of the actors, their circumstances didn't lend to any romantic atmosphere) and I need both of them to have a happy ending because I said so.

He vaguely noted that, even from this distance, Winterfell looked much better than the last time he had seen it with his own eyes. Many visions of the past had showed him that his home had once looked even grander than he remembered from his childhood, so he had expected to be disappointed by its sight. He wasn’t.

He was finally coming home.

“It’s larger than I imagined,” Meera commented behind him, her warm breath skidding across his neck.

Had he not been given the horse, as well as a quickly-crafted saddle to compensate for his useless legs, Bran would have never found out that he had grown taller than his traveling companion.

For so long, he had looked at her from below, the forward tilt of her torso always keeping her face away from him, her emotions hidden as she labored to get him across woods and barren lands alike.

He still couldn’t see her face since she was seated at his back now, but he could hear the awe in her voice and feel the tightening of the arm she had around him.

It wasn't the first time that Meera had reached around the wooden frame of his cripple seat to hold him. She’d squeezed him tightly with both arms the one time the ground had been level enough for him to bring the sturdy stallion to a galloping pace—and he’d been surprised to hear that she had never ridden a horse before practicing at Castle Black—but most of the time she kept her hands away. Their furs were too thick for Bran to feel her body heat but it was still unusual to have her _ right there _ next to him.

It hadn’t bothered him before, but lately Bran was embarrassed that he’d spent days in the same clothes, which were already starting to smell after being washed at Castle Black. Ever since going past the Wall, he’d pissed himself twice while spending a long time in visions. Being seated upright rather than being inclined on a sled made him more aware of his body stench, and he hoped that the cold air shielded Meera from the unpleasantness.

Most of the time, Bran did not bother worrying about his broken body. Since becoming the Three-Eyed Raven, he had more pressing concerns than his human needs. However, since being in the presence of so many able bodies at Castle Black, his childish insecurities had resurfaced. 

He was self-aware enough to understand that returning home was another reason why he was worried about his appearance.

Bran knew his role in the upcoming war. He could not tell how it would end, but he knew that, as long as he guided his siblings—and cousin, he had to remind himself most of the time, despite his omniscience—they had a chance to prevail over the Night King and his army.

He knew his value as the Three-Eyed Raven, but he was uncertain about his role as Brandon Stark, son of Eddard and Catelyn Stark. What was he to do after the war, if they won? His training had been cut short, he could not achieve the level of detachment and all-knowing power that his predecessor had. He could never go underground and live centuries on end being a repository of human history.

And though he had no concrete indication that it would be so, Bran felt that his powers would disappear along with the Night King. Over the past few centuries, magic had been dying in the North. The Children of the Forest were gone, the last of the Giant had died in the battle Jon and Sansa had fought against the Boltons—hours after Rickon’s heart had been pierced by an arrow—and very few mammoths and ice bears were left. The chances of the Three-Eyed Raven’s powers surviving this era were not promising.

The few magical creatures still thriving beyond the Wall or outside of Westeros were shrouding their presence from Bran’s eyes, not that he cared directing his gaze their way ever since learning that one key to the victory of the living over the dead depended on was no other than Jon Snow, or rather Jaehaerys Targaryen.

Thinking of the secret of his cousin-raised-half-brother’s parentage reminded Bran that Howland Reed was also on his way to Winterfell. Meera herself had penned the letter requesting his presence in Winterfell. Bran was glad that his friend would be reunited with her father, he wanted to see her happy.

“You grew up there,” Meera’s voice brought the young man back from his thoughts. She had let him go to take control of the reigns.

They were taking a detour, heading for the wolfwoods. Their arrival would be noticed if they went down directly to the North Gate.

“I used to climb that tower, a lot,” he recounted as he pointed to the First Keep, the tallest of them all. “I used to think that I could see the whole North from there, including the Wall.”

How naive he had been there, how carefree. His greatest worry had been to not get caught climbing by his lady mother, and getting better with his bow, and growing old enough so he could finally spar with real swords and get on to his real training as a knight.

“I used to think that Greywater Watch was all there was to the world,” Meera shared with a scoff. “Then I learned about Winterfell being the center of the North, and King’s Landing being the capital of Westeros, and that Essos was across the Narrow Sea. At first Jojen wanted us to go to Essos, but he estimated that we’d be ‘too slow’ to find who we would be looking for.”

Bran knew that Meera missed her younger brother, and that she still felt guilty for ending his life, despite the Three-Eyed Raven letting them know that Jojen had known about his death all along.

Bran remembered feeling guilty about Jojen, but nowadays he only felt guilty for Meera. Despite knowing that the Night King was on his way to the Wall and that he was likely to get past it, Bran felt lighter than he’d ever been since fleeing his own home to escape Theon.

Theon, who had helped Sansa escape and get to Jon, who was now with the Dragon Queen.

“Riders,” Meera warned as they got closer to the woods.

A hunting party, from the looks of it. Sansa’s coronation was planned to be held in a sennight. Had Bran waited a few more days to depart from Castle Black as Eddisson Tollet had suggested, they would have missed the event as well as Jon because of a storm coming up in two days.

“We can follow them back to the castle,” Meera said as she pointed at the trails the horses had left behind. “I don’t think we can see it easily from the woods.”

Bran could’ve used a raven or another forest animal to guide them, but he guessed that Meera would prefer he stay conscious for the rest of the ride.

He himself wanted to stay conscious for the rest of the ride. This was probably the last time they would ever be together, just the two of them.

They were halfway through the woods when Bran felt Meera tense and slow the horse.

“A hare,” she whispered right into his ears, and Bran shivered as he felt her press her front to his back.

He blinked in disappointment as she leaned away again, only to realize that she had been reaching for the bow and quiver she had taken from Castle Black.

She moved slowly behind him, but after a while he felt rather than heard her sigh.

“It will see me before I can get a good angle,” she explained, her voice still quiet in Bran’s ear. “You try it, that tree is hiding you from its sight.”

“What?” Bran exclaimed, only realizing that he’d talked too loudly when he saw the ears of the hare.

“Go, go! To the right over there,” Meera urged him with a push on his shoulder and pointed ahead as she tapped her heels against the stallion’s flanks.

Bran steered them where she’d pointed, making sure that the horse avoided obstacles on the uneven floor.

Just as they galloped past the hare, it hopped away to the right and back, and Bran thought they’d lost it but then he heard the draw of the bow quickly followed by the whistle of the shot arrow.

The young Stark was too preoccupied slowing down the horse safely to know if the arrow had reached its target, but as soon as they came to a stop Meera carefully slid off.

Bran stared wildly at his companion’s catch as she brandished it with a wide smile.

He couldn’t remember at the moment, but he had seen the same type of white fur in one of his visions. Maybe on a dress? His guts told him to never seek out the vision. It probably was not important.

A pair of crows burst through trees, and a moment later Bran heard the noise of hooves beating quickly on the ground.

The concern on Meera’s face confirmed that riders were coming their way.

“Who goes there?” a voice the young Stark hadn’t heard in years called out from behind him.

Jon Snow, his bastard brother, now Prince of Winterfell.

Jaehaerys Targaryen, his legitimate cousin, the Prince that was promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always appreciated! I'm definitely writing faster because I've gotten such amazing feedback so far.
> 
> That last line is an interpretation of one of Bran's visions (if you're into theories you know which one). He can't know for certain who is the Prince that was promised because the prophecy didn't come with a portrait of the person. So maybe Bran is right, and maybe he's wrong.
> 
> Any guesses to whose POV is next?


	5. Arya Stark of Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya reunites with an old friend of hers as well as a family friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major warning for messy violence! It's nowhere near as bad as what's on the show, but people will die. More about it in the endnotes.
> 
> Also, in case it's confusing: Arya=a girl=the bandit.

_ The scent of pine leaves and piled up snow invading her nose, she rushed ahead to follow the familiar scent that had drawn her from her solitary journey. _

_ She veered off to the side then sprinted along the river, the beat of her heart, the woosh of the cold air and the quiet beat of her paws hitting the snow-covered ground the only sounds her ears picked up, until she heard the peculiar rhythm of a different animal a few hundred paces ahead. _

_ She slowed down, sniffing the air to identify the other beast. _

_ Not one beast, but _two_. One prey—horse—and a human. _

_ Not just any human. The dead fur surrounding her body hid some of her natural scent, but even after all these years she could recognize it. _

_ Pack. _

Arya gasped as she came out of her daze, gripping the reigns of her neighing horse.

“Easy, easy!” she whispered as firmly as she could while squeezing her thighs around the now shying horse.

The young woman waited for the mare to calm down to look behind her, all her senses on alert for the presence of an enemy.

She frowned when she realized that she could _ smell _ the fear in the horse, and could clearly hear the crunch of its hooves on the snow-covered floor.

But the sharp senses quickly dulled, and while normally Arya would be worried about such an odd occurrence, she felt wrapped in an unexplained sense of peace and excitement.

Blinking away her daze, she looked ahead, her sigh of relief taking shape in the air as she took in her surroundings.

Moat Cailin looked as desolate as the last time she’d been there, but the white coat of winter now granted its ruins an eerie peacefulness to the unmanned fortress.

Or at least she’d thought it was unmanned. As she approached the southern outpost of the castle, she noticed that the King’s Road had been used recently, and that a narrow plowed trail led from it to one of the towers.

Who was occupying the castle? Bolton men? Arya didn’t mind taking down a few of the traitors ahead of schedule.

She slid off her horse, untied the bag of faces she had collected on her way from the Twins, and donned the face of the road bandit she had killed two days prior.

She walked into a recently deserted yard, prints of human and horse trails indicating that whoever was camping there was not far away.

The sounds of pained groans drew the attention of the faceless assassin.

She tied her mare behind a sturdy shack, leaving Needle behind in favor of a pair of sharp daggers, one which she hid in her right boot, the other she tucked at her back.

On her way to the stable where the noises were coming from, a girl detected a horseless carriage brandishing a sigil she’d never seen in person: a black lizard-lion on a green field.

House Reed of Greywater Watch. How had people from the recluse vassals of House Stark ended up this far away from their swamps?

“In the name of the old gods, I beg you!” a male voice croaked, bringing a girl’s focus back to the stable.

The body of the bandit crouched by the crate keeping the entrance of the wooden building propped.

To a girl’s shock there was indeed a stout crannogman being tortured on a wheel, and his tormentors were men dressed in _northern_ leather armor themselves.

“You savages pray the old gods?” one of the torturers asked in disbelief after slashing a blade across the now screaming man. “I thought you worshipped frogs. Get it, swamps, frogs?”

“Your jokes are as stupid as you’re ugly, Torrhen,” one of his companions mocked, and the others laughed along with him.

A girl felt anger boil her blood at the scene just as she noticed a tied up man across the man on the wheel. That one who could pass for any northerner if he wasn’t dressed like a crannogman too.

After the torturers were done with his friend, he’d be next on that wheel of torture.

Many years ago, a girl had felt powerless as she’d witnessed people being tortured by Lannister men a few yards over; then she’d relied on Jaqen H’ghar to punish the soldiers.

Now, she could punish those ruthless northmen herself.

But when she pulled out the dagger in her boot, her arm was grabbed from behind, and the bandit’s head was shoved against the crate.

“And who might you be?” a voice with a thick northern accent questioned calmly.

A girl tried to jerk backwards but the soldier shook the bandit’s kneeling form, then pulled his hair before slamming his head against the crate.

“Hey, whatcha fellas doing out there?” a girl heard one of the men inside the stable ask while she struggled to ignore the pain coursing in the bandit’s borrowed body.

“Teaching a thief not to sneak upon soldiers of House Dustin,” the attacker replied with a scoff as he stabbed the bandit’s shoulder with Arya’s own dagger.

_House Dustin?_ What were Lady Dustin’s men doing torturing fellow loyal northerners?

It was probably the pain that made Arya take so long to come to the conclusion that House Dustin had accepted the traitor Bolton as their liege, because she knew for certain that House Reed would never forsake the Starks.

But the only Stark known to be alive was Sansa, who was Lady Bolton now…

As she got hoisted up to a chair, Arya internally planned to interrogate the crannogman about the political standing in the North.

The man who caught her made the lethal mistake of tying her hands at the back. She pretended to struggle against the restraints on the seat still slippery with the blood of the now dead tortured crannogman.

“How did you know that there was something to steal ‘round here?” the bad joker questioned as he hovered over the bandit’s body. “Huh? Tell us thief. We look like fuckin’ merchants to you?”

Arya heard herself scream with the voice of the borrowed body even before she registered the pain of having a fist hit the wounded shoulder.

“Leave him for now,” the man who seemed to be the leader of the group—he had the best diction among all of the northmen—instructed his comrade. “Let’s get answers from our friend here.”

The dead crannogman’s corpse was carelessly thrown on a stack of brittle hay, and the still living one was placed on the wheel.

“What’s in the chest?” the leader of the Dustin soldiers interrogated the Reed man as he jerked his chin towards the back of the stable.

Arya turned her borrowed head, acting interested in the content of the chest to hide the grimace of pain caused by her wiggling her arms to reach the dagger at her back.

She wanted to rush, because the Reed man looked too frail to last long on that wheel, but she didn’t want to miss the perfect opportunity to slaughter all of the Dustin men.

“Hey!” bad joker called on the bandit. “That chest’s not yours to look at, hear?” he scolded lightly as he backhanded Arya’s borrowed face, so hard that she lurched sideways, the flimsy chair following her momentum until she crashed to the floor.

The dagger fell to the ground silently on the dirt floor, but a girl saw the moment the Dustin soldier spotted it right behind her.

She could still make it. Her hands were free, she'd managed to cut her rope. But her head hurts, so she wouldn’t be able to stay focused for long. She couldn’t kill all six men, not without Needle.

“This fucker!” bad joker exclaimed as the leader of the team unsheathed his sword behind him.

Then a girl felt many things happened at once.

Her mask fell off.

The screams got louder—but it wasn’t the Reed man's voice.

There was a lot of blood, some of it spurting on her clothes and face.

A dog was growling and snarling and biting. 

Or was it a wolf?

_ Protect the pack. _

What?

Arya blinked, making sure to lift her head slowly as not to exacerbate her migraine.

Her clothes were too big now, and she could see the fallen face of the bandit in her peripheral vision.

But she could care less about the loss of her disguise when, just in front of her, a bloody-mouthed direwolf was staring at her.

It was huge, of a height with a colt, but much wider. Grey coat with white underbelly.

“Nymeria?” Arya heard her own voice ask, and the next second she almost retched on the floor.

The taste of blood and fear and _ pure elation _ got her dizzier than the hits to her head, but a girl focused and disassociated herself from her body’s pain, and felt the rasp of something wet and warm on her right ear.

“Nymeria! Stop!” she ordered mildly, managing to push the head of the huge beast away from her own, and the Stark girl was relieved to see her direwolf obey and take a few steps back before dropping her rump down.

By the one god, she was _ huge_. Arya had trouble remembering the exact size of her companion when she last saw her. She’d been much _ smaller _!

“The direwolf is the sigil animal of House Stark,” a male voice said, and Arya nicked her hand when she rushed to grab her dagger, chiding herself for dropping her guard so easily.

Fortunately, it was just the Reed prisoner, who was still alive and looked relatively better compared to his torturers—who were all dead now, necks broken or bitten off.

“I have never seen a direwolf before in my life,” the crannogman resumed, his dark gaze solemn, “but I was on my way to Winterfell, to see Queen Sansa and her heir Jon Snow. The crown prince of the North has a direwolf, a huge white beast who’s said to be silent as a ghost.”

_ Queen _ Sansa? The Boltons had rebelled against Cersei? And Jon was the _ crown prince _? How was it possible, if he was a member of the Night’s Watch! Had he deserted his post to help their sister, then? _How?_

“You look a lot like her,” the northman commented quietly, and Arya notice how his gaze turned sad.

“Who?” she asked as she straightened to sit on the floor, readily welcoming Nymeria’s huge head in her arms—so _ heavy, _but her body heat warmed up Arya from the cold.

“Lyanna Stark,” the crannogman answered. “Beloved sister of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. My liege lord and dear friend, whom I failed to protect.”

Only then did the girl notice the dignified lilt in the man’s voice, his easy pronunciation of her aunt and father’s names, as if he’d said them so often that they weren’t just words he was taught, but true ways he’d addressed people he knew.

A man from House Reed, who claimed to be her dead father’s friend?

“You are Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch,” Arya stated, and yes she did trip a bit on his name, relying on the memories of her boring, repetitive lessons with Septa Mordane to identify the crannogman.

“And who are you, direwolf girl?” the man managed to sound and look patronizing despite his awkward position on the wheel.

“I am Arya Stark of Winterfell,” she replied as she dug her fingers in the thick fur of her non-human friend, and she felt a thought not her own brush against her mind.

_ Pack. Home. _

Yes, she was going home to her pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Arya is a much better fighter and could've made quick work of those Dustin soldiers, but this was about her reuniting with Nymeria and meeting Howland Reed, not about her being a badass.
> 
> I planned on having Arya and Jon reunite in this chapter, but it got too long. 
> 
> Guess whose POV is next AND let me know whose POV you'd like to read in upcoming chapters. No promises, but I'll do my best to satisfy popular requests.


	6. The Queen of the North and the Vale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night of Sansa's coronation doesn't end the way she expected it to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second part of this chapter was edited for one major point: the Vale is part of Sansa's kingdom.
> 
> Unbeta'd, please forgive the mistakes that escaped the editing process.
> 
> Check out the end notes for explanations on details borrowed from canon.

It took almost a sennight for Sansa to join Bran by the weirwood tree.

A sennight to banish the image of herself standing in the snow at night, Theon—Reek—walking her to get married to Ramsay.

The day after she’d discovered the Bolton bastard’s true colors, the lady of Winterfell had asked Talina to burn that dress and vowed to never wear white again.

Sitting under the scarlet foliage had actually led Sansa to turn the simple design of her dress into an elaborate piece of work.

Her coronation was on the morrow, yet Sansa was only now adding the final touch to her most sophisticated piece of clothing. She’d spent every minute of her spare time weaving, cutting, sewing, embroidering, and had even requested the help of a blacksmith to glue the parts of her royal cloak.

As she nipped the red string of the last weirwood tree leaf lining the right sleeve of the dress, Sansa heard Bran gasp on her left.

“Bran?” she gently called as she carefully dropped the needle, string and dress into the basket at her feet.

She was relieved to see her brother’s brown eyes looking at her in response. The empty, rolled out eyes she often had to stare at when Bran had visions or was flying his ravens never ceased to unnerve her.

“Arya’s arrived,” he announced quietly with a small smile.

Just then, a white blur in the already white background of the godswood emerged from the northeast side of the place.

“Ghost!” Jon shouted, jogging right behind the albino direwolf.

For once, the red-eyed canine didn’t heed Jon’s words, not even slowing down as he disappeared among the trees.

Jon’s face suggested that he was thinking of following his companion, but he eventually slowed down and walked towards the weirwood tree instead.

The queen in the North felt her eyebrows lift as she realized that her brother and heir was carrying a small bundle with both hands.

“What is that, Jon?” Sansa asked as she realized that he probably had come from the blacksmith. “I hope it’s not a dagger that you expect me to learn how to fight with,” she joked, and felt ridiculously rewarded by Jon’s eye roll. “I’m not Arya, the only piece of steel I can wield with dexterity is an actual needle.”

She was about to inform him of Arya’s coincidental arrival when Jon silently unfolded the cloth hiding his gift.

Oh.

It was a crown.

It was made out of a dark metal, displaying two direwolves heads. One direwolf was smaller and its muzzle propped up the chin of the bigger one.

“When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” Bran cryptically quoted as his eyes inspected the crown.

Sansa remembered first hearing those words from their father.

The heir prince of Winterfell stepped towards her and, as he’d done it symbolically days ago, he physically handed her her crown.

A sudden rush of noise prevented Sansa from thanking Jon for the gift.

The new queen gaped as Ghost and _ another _ direwolf stumbled through the trees, panting loudly as they jumped over each other like pups.

Sansa had almost screamed in shock when she'd first seen Jon's direwolf at Castle Black. She'd been so used to being scared of Ramsay's hounds that she had forgotten that there were larger beasts in the North. On his haunches, Ghost was as tall as a horse, though he was wider at the shoulders. She'd never dare it without Jon's permission, but Sansa wondered how comfortable it would be to ride the direwolf.

Ghost seemed to be unaware of his size at times, as he oftened tried to sleep on Sansa's lap whenever she groomed his immaculate fur. He effectively pinned her to her seat when he managed to slot his heavy head on top of her thighs.

Sansa often wondered how her life would've been different had her direwolf Lady still been alive. Obviously the furry companions couldn't always protect their humans from danger, but they were true friends, with no intention to betray at the first sign of weakness.

When he wasn't out on a hunt, Ghost did an excellent job of keeping Littlefinger at bay.

“Nymeria!” A female voice resonated in the godswood before a familiar yet new silhouette appeared before its three occupants.

Sansa first noted that her younger sister was dressed in breeches, which was not surprising. After spending time with Brienne, the redhead had stopped thinking that men’s clothing were unflattering on women.

Like Jon, Arya wore a dark leather tunic and a sword belt. Needle was currently hidden by the fur cloak that Sansa questioned whether it actually kept the youngest Stark woman warm with its missing chest piece. 

Sansa frowned as Arya’s eyes wouldn’t meet hers, but then she saw that her sister was staring at Jon, who was staring back.

The two pairs of gray eyes quickly became misty, and with uncanny grace and speed Arya ran and tackled Jon.

The eldest Stark woman couldn’t help the twinge of envy blooming in her chest as Arya was engulfed in Jon’s embraced.

Sansa was too tall to be hugged so snuggly by anyone other than Brienne.

Not that the lady knight would ever hug Sansa. Now that the Lady of Winterfell had become a queen, her sworn servant was even more formal with her.

“I thought you were Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch?” Arya asked Jon as she finally pulled away from his strong arms.

Sansa blinked away the thought that she missed being held in those arms, which were the only place she’d ever felt safe and cherished.

_ He only cherished you because he thought you were the last of his family _, she reminded herself bitterly as she watched Jon tuck stray hairs behind their sister’s ear.

“It’s a long story,” the former betrayed leader of Castle Black answered with a sigh. “I’ll tell you later.”

Arya nodded happily before she seemed to notice Sansa and Bran for the first time.

Of course, she went to Bran first.

“Thank you for the crows,” she told the youngest of the surviving Starks, and Sansa couldn’t help but interrupt their moment.

“You sent crows to her?” she questioned.

“To avoid the Dustin soldiers, and the few Bolton escapees,” the warg replied as a raven croaked out of sight. “And to get them both here before Jon’s departure.”

“Both?” Sansa and Jon repeated simultaneously, their eyes meeting briefly before Jon’s head snapped towards something behind the weirwood tree.

Not something, _ someone _.

He was an older northman, his long dark hair peppered with gray strands. At first the queen thought him a wildling—freefolk—but his impeccable gait and the familiar brown color of his eyes corrected her assumption.

“Lord Reed,” she greeted as she stood from her seat.

“Your Grace,” her father’s old friend responded with a respectful bow. “Forgive my tardiness and intrusion.”

“You are right on time, my lord,” Sansa gently objected, “in fact, though House Reed has not been seen in Winterfell in two decades, no Northern House has been more steadfast in their allegiance to the Stark family. Your children ensured the safe return of my brother, for which I will make sure the North remembers the name of Jojen Reed.”

“You honor me and my house, Your Grace,” Lord Howland said solemnly as he glanced at Bran.

“Meera is training,” Sansa’s crippled brother told their guest calmly. 

“I’ll go get the chest,” Arya announced as she bounced off Bran’s side, but she stopped abruptly in front of Sansa.

“You don’t expect me to curtsy, do you?” the dark-haired woman asked lightly, an eyebrow up.

“Of course not, Arya,” Sansa quickly replied with a nervous laugh.

The older Stark woman realized that she had given up on her sister showing her the affection she’d offered their brothers. After all, they’d always been at odds when they were younger.

So when Arya gathered her in arms that felt stronger than they ought to be, it took a second for Sansa to return the embrace.

It took all her focus not to sob at the thought of all the cruel obstacles her baby sister had had to overcome before making it back home. Just as Jon and Bran and Sansa herself, Arya had experienced first hand the cruelty of the killers of the world. She’d had to become a killer herself.

When Arya and Howland Reed left the godswood, Sansa stared at her crown and vowed right there that she would protect her pack so that none of them would ever have to suffer again.

* * *

Though the following feast was grander than she had imagined their resources could afford—no doubt Lord Baelish had donated coins to Maester Wolkan and Hilda behind her back—Sansa’s coronation itself was a subdued affair.

The first few minutes were spent in silence, only interrupted by the sound of Sansa’s dress on the cold stone floor of the Great Hall. There was no doubt that every man and woman in attendance had noticed a few of the many subtle symbols she had sewn into it, while the gray of her dress and the direwolves on her crown were clear reminders of the House Stark sigil.

Her black, feathery one-sided cloak was possibly another obvious symbol, the new piece of her outfit reflecting the addition of a bird sigil to her kingdom. There were not enough white raven yet to have her respect the colors of House Arryn, but it was just fine: the cloak also honored Jon, who had been a “crow” for years. He might not be her hand, but he was very much a supportive member of her court and she wanted to wear the cloak as often as possible to convey that message to her council.

And if Jon never pulled her into his arms ever again, Sansa would wear this cloak regularly to remember how warm and fierce their first embrace at Castle Black had been.

The unruly feathers of the cloak also imitated the shaggy fur of Rickon’s direwolf, Shaggydog, whose head was represented on her left shoulder.

Sansa’s chest expanded with lightness when she passed Arya, whose sharp gaze noted the necklace needle she’d tied by her right hip, the way her little sister wore her sword.

The weirwood branches of Sansa’s bodice, along with the embroidered weirwood tree leaves, would be interpreted as a symbol of the faith respected in the North, but Sansa had included in the design of her dress to honor Bran's journey beyond the wall, his role as the Three-Eyed-Raven, as well as honoring the previous branches of the restored monarchy of the North, including Robb.

Thanks to Jon, Sansa’s crown was a more symbolic recall to the last King in the North, as it mimicked the clasp of Robb’s favorite cloak, two direwolves heads facing each other.

Finally, though it also imitated the fur of the direwolf on the House Stark sigil, the scale-like pattern on the right sleeve of Sansa’s dress represented her lady mother’s house. 

Littlefinger might interpret it as a reflection of her ambition to add the Riverlands into her kingdom, but truly Sansa had felt compelled to wear House Tully at her coronation because, now that Winter had come, taking care of her _ family _ was now her priority.

The queen’s decision to leave her hair hanging loose was not made on a whim—nor because she had been running out of time to style it, as her chambermaids had likely speculated. 

For so long the Stark woman had worn her hair in southern styles, which she couldn’t possibly have on for her coronation as the most powerful woman in the North. While northwomen favored simple braids, Sansa had opted not to tie hers in the fashion of women warriors of the North. In any case, her crown kept her long red hair away from her face.

As she stood in front of her throne to face the people gathered to swear her fealty, Maester Wolkan waiting with her crown, Sansa Stark of Winterfell internally prayed whichever gods would listen to make her wiser than her father, more protective than her mother, braver than Robb, and more hopeful for better days than Rickon.

“The North remembers,” she opened her speech with her more authoritative tone, her voice bouncing off the walls of the Great Hall.

“We remember a time when we worked together to withstand the harsh winters; we remember the first King in the North, Brandon the Builder, who erected the Wall as a barrier against the terrors beyond it; we remember Torrhen Stark, the king who bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror in exchange for peace; we remember King Robb, who called on you all to punish the enemies of House Stark; we remember the Vale, who aided us in our hour of need, and joined us to make us stronger.”

A few lords were nodding, Littlefinger’s gaze was as piercing as ever, and her remaining family was looking at her with pride and love.

“By accepting this crown,” Sansa resumed after a solemn pause in her speech, “I swear to finish what my brother started, to make the last of our enemies, the Lannisters, pay for their transgressions against us; I swear to bring the peace that the Boltons broke by terrorizing the people they were supposed to lead and protect; I swear to prepare us all for the Great War, to feed soldiers and civilians alike as we face the army of the dead.”

The rumors of the Night King and his ever growing army had been confirmed by Jon a few days ago, when he’d opened the training grounds to any able body, be it male or female. Even Lady Mormont was learning how to fight.

“As I accept this crown, may the North remember that on this day, I Sansa Stark of Winterfell, swore to honor my predecessors when winter came.”

The silence that lingered in the room after the crown was placed on her head momentarily made Sansa worry that her speech had been too short or too personal.

But the crowd quickly followed Jon and Arya’s example, drawing their swords and lifting them in the air to proclaim her Queen in the North.

After she took great care to sit on her high chair, Sansa waved to announce the beginning of the feast, and was pleased by the swift change of mood.

Jon, Arya and Bran joined her at the high table she relocated to right before the first course was served.

“Shouldn’t you announce the members of your council before people are too drunk to remember the details of the night?” Jon asked her as he paused halfway to getting his first sip of ale.

“I’ll approach them individually on the morrow,” she replied after swallowing her first bite of fish.

“Since when does the crown of the North need a council to rule?” Arya asked on her left, her mouthful not fully swallowed. “You have us already.”

“And what do you know of ruling?” Sansa questioned with a scoff. “I do count on you and Bran to help me gauge the people’s opinion of my leadership, but listening to our vassals is a must. I need the entirety of the North united. We need to be smarter than father, smarter than Robb. I love them dearly but they made stupid mistakes. They only followed their hearts and they lost their heads for it."

Although she was speaking at a normal volume, only her siblings could hear Sansa’s words because of the already raucous crowd feasting beyond their table.

“You say that a lot, ‘we’,” Arya noted as she took her eyes away from her plate to stare at the queen. “I hope that Littlefinger isn’t included in that pronoun. I don’t trust him.”

“Lord Baelish thinks that I have no choice but to trust him,” Sansa informed her younger sister. “Let him, though I’d appreciate if you didn’t antagonize him publicly. Do feel free to threaten him whenever you’re alone, of course.”

“Good,” Arya commented before stuffing herself anew.

“When I say we, I do include all four of us,” Sansa finally answered the question, “though officially I’m talking about Jon and I.”

She turned her face to the right, gazing at Jon, who pretended not hearing her for a few seconds.

“Sansa,” he chided softly when her gaze lingered.

If he only knew what she thought of him deep in her twisted heart, he’d be disgusted rather than impatient.

“Lord Baelish alone can represent me in front of Daenerys Targaryen,” the queen argued. “Or Arya could go in your stead. She’s a princess, a woman to whom the dragon queen would be more sympathetic to.”

Though she’d first considered sending both her heir and her hand to Dragonstone, Sansa had since judged the move a terrible idea. Littlefinger could very well have Jon killed to put Robin ahead in the line of succession.

“I want to see the dragons,” Arya admitted enthusiastically as she poked her head past Sansa’s shoulder to hold Jon’s gaze. 

Jon quickly redirected his eyes to Sansa with a frown, though the lift of his lips was playful when he spoke again.

“You want our sister, the _ trained assassin_, to negotiate an alliance with a woman known to burn the people who anger her? Come on Sansa, you read the letter Arya wrote!”

“I was addressing it to our enemies!” the younger Stark woman protested. “I am trained to impersonate _ all types _of people, including diplomats. I’ve lived in Essos like her, I can speak High Valyrian… I’d be a much better emissary than you. Stark men have a terrible history of never returning home after going South. Stark women do much better.”

“Jon should go,” Bran said as he sat stoically, staring ahead.

Sansa followed his gaze, which was on Howland Reed and his daughter Meera. Those two appeared out of place seated by a group of rambunctious Free Folks.

The queen looked back at her trueborn brother and thought she discerned a hint of longing in his otherwise neutral gaze.

Meera Reed was Bran’s elder by several years, but a considerable age gap would not matter to an enamored young man.

While Sansa had no proof of her baby brother’s feelings for his travel companion, she had noted how attentive the Reed woman was to Bran’s needs.

Meera was definitely to thank for the little normalcy in the life of the Three-Eyed-Raven, a role whose complete duties and abilities still escaped Sansa.

When he was not lost in his visions by the weirwood tree, Bran could be seen learning to master the use a bow both from his wheelchair and from his special riding seat on a horse. Meera had taken him hunting for a whole afternoon once, and though all the preys the pair had brought back had been the woman’s catch, Sansa had marvelled at how jovial her younger brother had appeared, looking almost as young and innocent as during the days he could still climb the uneven brick walls of the broken tower.

“Jon is best suited to talk to Daenerys Targaryen,” Bran added as he looked at his siblings, his voice sounding disturbingly detached to Sansa’s ears.

“Thank you Bran,” Jon replied with his signature brief smile.

“You should summon Howland Reed to your solar before we all retire for bed,” the youngest surviving Stark suggested to Sansa before eating his food.

He didn’t speak for the rest of the feast despite the many questions Sansa and Arya asked him.

* * *

Sansa was staring at the fire in her solar when Howland Reed revealed Jon’s parentage.

Not Jon. _Jaeherys_.

Jaeherys Targaryen, _legitimate son_ of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.

Not her brother, but her _ cousin_.

“No,” Jon said quietly as he stared at the scrolls on the desk.

There were two separate records of his biological parents’ marriage, officiated by the High Septon of the time—formerly known as Maynard, a septon known for his fastidiousness according to the late Septa Mordane—as well as letters from Lyanna to her family.

The Dragon Prince had not abducted the Winter Rose of Winterfell, but the two of them had eloped together and married for love. They’d lived months of bliss in Dorne before Rhaegar had left for the battlefield and Lyanna had given birth to her son Jaeherys Targaryen.

Sansa would have loved to read these details of her aunt’s life when she was still a stupid girl who fantasized about the romance told in songs.

Now, she felt sad for her half-brother turned cousin, who had been raised with a shame that had not been his to bear. Jon Snow had joined the Night’s Watch because he’d thought that wearing the black was his only opportunity to elevate himself above his status of bastard.

Sansa’s father had lied to all of them, even to his lady _ wife_, to keep his sister’s son safe from Robert Baratheon.

“Father lied to us,” Arya said out loud, her wide gaze surveilling the room.

Bran wasn’t surprised by the revelation, which indicated that he’d known for a while. Howland Reed remained stoic, the truth known to him for over twenty years now.

Sansa kept her mask on as she looked at Jon, who was still shocked by the words of their father's old friend.

To think that a Targaryen had almost be named King in the North, and that Sansa had named him her heir.

"I never felt like a Stark," Jon said, not for the first time in front of Sansa though it hurt her to hear it all the same. "I was the stain of the most honorable Great House of Westeros, yet all this time I wasn't even the fruit of a sinful dalliance. All this time, my mother had been in the crypts..."

"It doesn't change anything," Arya claimed as she rushed to his side. "Father raised you as his own—"

"He let me live with the shame of his lies!" Jon countered, his eyes wide and shiny with unshed tears. "He let me join the Night's Watch, let me waste away in that frozen hell, and I wasn't even his..."

"Yes you were, you _are_," Sansa forced herself to say.

In another life, she would've been elated to learn that the man her twisted heart wanted was not her brother but in fact her cousin, the fruit of the union of two Great Houses of Westeros, the perfect candidate for the Lord Consort of the North...

But in this life, Jon was her_ brother_, and she would never let him suspect how depraved she truly was.

"I believe that Father could've come up with a better lie—make you Brandon Stark's bastard so Mother wouldn't hate you so, for example—but the fact remained that your life would've been in danger had your parentage been revealed. Robert hired assassins to get rid of Daenerys Targaryen all the way in Essos, Jon. Father did what he thought was best to protect you. He loved you deeply Jon, he loved you as much as any of us, and we love you just the same. You are a Stark through your mother Lyanna. You look more like a Stark that I could ever wish for."

"But I'm _not_ a Stark," Jon insisted as he waved at the parchments. "I'm a _Targaryen_. Don't you see Sansa? I cannot be your heir. The Lords and Ladies wouldn't stand for it..."

"They won't know," Sansa promised as she approached her desk. "If we burn all proof—"

"What?" Jon exclaimed, jumping in front of her to block her access to the records. "No! I need those!"

"Whatever for?" Arya questioned with a frown.

"To prove who I am when I go see Daenerys Targaryen, my...My aunt," Jon informed.

His words felt like a slap to Sansa's face.

"Leave us alone," she heard herself command their audience, and while Lord Reed promptly wheeled Bran out of the room, leaving the solar with him, both Sansa and Jon had to stare at Arya to make her leave with a huff.

"You'd reclaim your birthname?" Sansa asked her brother once they were alone. "After all we've been through together, you'd renounce us?"

"I'm not renouncing you, it's to appeal to the Dragon Queen to join us against the Night King!" Jon explained with wide eyes. "I wouldn't...I can't be your heir anymore, Sansa, but I'll always fight for all of you. You are my family, you and Arya and Bran, but Daenerys is _too_! She thinks she's alone in the world, this would be great news to her."

"Or she would just think that you are an obstacle on her path to the Iron Throne," the Queen in the North argued. "We can't let the news get out, Jon. Your parentage will bring too many complications."

"How is it complicated? I don't want any throne!" Jon insisted. "Not yours, nor my aunt's, whichever she thinks she has a right to. I just want us to have a chance against the Night King, which we won't if we don't recruit Daenerys Targaryen's dragons!"

"Let Lord Baelish negotiate an alliance like we decided," Sansa suggested as she gently dropped a hand on his arm.

His too warm arm. As if his blood was boiling inside, like a dragon.

"Wouldn't you prefer not to owe another favor to Littlefinger?" Jon challenged as he dropped his other hand on her shoulder, right on the direwolf head of her cloak. "We owe him our victory over the Boltons, we owe him the Vale's allegiance...Why let him hold an alliance with the Dragon Queen over our heads too? Let me do it, Sansa. The _right way_."

"How do you know it's the right way?" Sansa asked between short breaths as she fought the shiver trying to steal across her body from her brother's—cousin's—touch. "What if Daenerys Targaryen claims you for herself?"

"What?" Jon reacted, and the tighter grip on her shoulder made the redhead gasp quietly.

"She's a queen _unwed_ and without heirs," she forced out of her mouth after taking a centering breath. "With her dragons _and_ you by her side, it won't matter that she has a false claim to the Iron Throne. You're known as one of the best swordsmen of Westeros, Jon. You've returned from the dead. She's brought back dragons in the world and commands the Dothraki _and_ the Unsullied. There would be enough power between the two of you to rule over Westeros unequivocally, like your ancestor Aegon the Conqueror."

"Bran the Builder is my ancestor too," Jon reminded her with an intense glare. "And my priority, _our_ priority is to protect the living from the dead! I won't let my aunt claim me as you say because I have greater worries than to play the game of thrones!"

"If you don't want to play then don't throw yourself across the game board by revealing your identity!" Sansa told him as she slashed the air between them with her free hand. "Stay here with me!"

"Is that an order,_ Your Grace?_" he spat as he abruptly pulled away from her.

Sansa froze for a few erratic heartbeats, her mind catching up to the harshness of his voice while her body craved the lost heat of his hands despite the sweat building at her hairline.

"Don't call me that, Jon," she chided him in a whisper, afraid that she couldn't hide the longing in her voice if she spoke any louder.

"Either you command me to stay as my queen or you let me go as my sister, Sansa," Jon offered just as quietly. "You can't have it both ways."

"I am your queen _because_ I am your sister!" she hissed as she invaded his space anew. "_You're_ the one who's trying to have it both ways, you want to bring an aunt here knowing that she'd threaten my legitimacy the second she sets foot in the North..."

"It's always about you and your crown!" Jon exploded, making the queen take a step back. "What about the Night King? What about your _vow_ to protect the people from his army of the dead?"

"With the Army of the Vale now under my command..." Sansa started, but Jon didn't let her finish.

"It's not enough!" he argued, stepping into her space. "Every dead on our side will be a new recruit on the side of the dead, Sansa. We need an expedite way to lower the staggering number of our enemy, and using fire is the best way to do so. _Dragons_ are the best way to do so."

Sansa was aware that she had to say something in reply, but her eyes were fixated on Jon's lips, her breath matching Jon's uneven one, her entire body _vibrating_ with pent-up energy she swore was too strong to solely come from inside her.

She forced herself to focus on the task at hand: convincing Jon to remain her heir.

"Maybe," she tried, her throat dry, so she licked her lips and felt dizzy when she caught Jon's dark gaze track the movement.

"Keep it a secret between you and her," she finally managed after clearing her throat. "_Please_ Jon, keep it a secret. If Littlefinger or Cersei learns about your true identity, Westeros risks to break into another chaotic war before the Night King even reaches the Wall."

"Alright," he conceded with a vigorous nod. "Alright, I'll keep it a secret."

"That means that you're still my heir," Sansa insisted, letting her tears come to the surface of her pitiful eyes. "Please Jon, I need you, I cannot rule alone..."

"Yes, of course, I'm sorry Sansa," her brother—cousin—apologized as he cradled her face with both hands, his dark gray eyes looking into her blue ones. "I promised to help you, and I will, but if we don't win the real war there won't be any kingdom to rule..."

"I know, I _know_," she assured him as her hands found their way to his waist, his body heat making her dizzy. "I just don't want to lose our autonomy. We fought for our home Jon, _you and I_, so whenever someone or something threatens to come between us, I cannot help but fear the worst..."

"Sansa, you're sweating!" Jon announced a propos of nothing.

The Queen in the North blinked to clear her mind, and only then did she gain full awareness of her flushed state.

"It's the cloak," she lied, and bit her lower lip in order not to gasp when Jon's hands immediately removed the offending garment and draped it over the closest chair at the desk.

"Your dress looks ten times heavier," the warrior commented as he squinted at her hanging sleeves. "It's beautiful, Sansa, but maybe you should change to something lighter? Your rooms are much warmer than the Great Hall."

"I should go change, you're right," Sansa admitted quietly as she stared at Jon's hands, which were hovering over her forearms.

She should prepare for bed and review her approach to recruiting the members of her council. Anything to get her wandering mind back in order.

"Are we alright Jon?" she asked before she thought of putting much needed distance between her and her brother—cousin.

But her body was fighting the separation, as if it was aware that in a few hours, thousand of paces would be between her and Jon.

"Yes we are, Sansa," he confirmed with a solemn nod. "I'll go to Dragonstone with Lord Baelish, let him negotiate an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen in public, and convince her myself to join our cause in private. But I'll come back home, As Jon Snow, not Jaeherys Targaryen. I promise."

If only he knew how much Sansa wanted him to be Jaeherys instead of Jon. A cousin instead of brother, someone she wouldn't feel guilty getting all heated and dizzy for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1: Changed Ghost's size as kazetoame helpfully pointed out that he's supposed to be the largest of his litter.
> 
> Part 2: a) I've read Michele Clapton's comments on Sansa's coronation outfit, but I had to tweak around the symbols to fit the narrative.
> 
> b) There's no reference to Meera's age on the show, but in the books she was sixteen when Bran was seven, and funnily enough that's also the real life age gap between the actors. Be warned that these two will end up in a romantic relationship in later chapters.
> 
> Please drop a comment if you liked the chapter, or to let me know why you didn't like something in particular.
> 
> Edit: I removed the "Robert's Rebellion was based on a lie" sentence thanks to helpful readers reminding me that it wasn't at all.


	7. The Mockingbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Baelish tries to get in Bran's good graces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of this chapter is a rewrite of the Bran vs Littlefinger's scene from 7x04, with a Breera fix-it.
> 
> Also, minor title change. Do you like it?
> 
> Also also, I made a few changes to last chapter. They're all highlighted in the opening and closing notes, no need to re-read the whole thing.

If Petyr had to describe the North in one word, he would have to agree with the other few southerners who had made the journey there at least once in their lifetime: it was _ cold. _

Not only was the climate harsh, the people were coarser than a newly sewed fur coat, and just as prickly. 

The Northern lords, many of whom the self-made man couldn’t wait to manipulate on his gameboard, were especially inflexible in their distrust of foreigners, whether they hailed from beyond the Wall or from south of the Neck. Even if a member of the latter group was the recently appointed Hand of the Queen of the North and the Vale

_ Queen of the North and the Vale._

Petyr couldn’t be more proud of Sansa, though he deeply regretted the mistake that had lost him the already wavering trust he’d earned when he’d snuck her out of King's Landing and protected her from Lisa.

At the time he had brought Sansa back to her homeland, the newly elected Lord Protector of the Vale—inasmuch as Robin’s impulsive choice could qualify as an election—had too much on his plate to properly monitor the Boltons. Rumors of Ramsay’s cruelty had not reached him until it was too late to rescue his protégée from another psychopathic bastard.

And just as the stars lighting up Petyr’s ascent to the throne were finally aligning, a new obstacle had appeared on the cyvasse board the veteran player was carefully moving his pieces. 

Jon Snow.

Another bastard standing between him and his beloved, but Baelish knew better than to use a weak or unrefined piece to remove the very much unrefined Prince of Winterfell from the queen's side.

No, Ned's Stark bastard was a force to be reckoned with, ideally a heavy horse, but most likely a veritable mountain to climb over. His slide had to appear natural.

Fortunately for Petyr, while the young man was known to be one of the best swordsmen of Westeros, he wasn't renowned for his bright mind. In fact, the fool had been betrayed by his own men at the Wall while he was the Lord Commander.

(Petyr had given up on gathering intelligence on how Sansa's bastard brother had been able to leave Castle Black alive upon breaking his vows. Now that his sister was queen, his transgression had likely already been pardoned.)

So all the Mockingbird had to do was take advantage of their trip to Dragonstone to plant seeds of doubts into the simpleton's mind.

Baelish had seen the way Eddard Stark's bastard son had reacted to the idea of losing his title of crown prince to Robin, the queen's trueborn cousin and now vassal. He would’ve given it up at that very moment had Sansa asked him to.

But Sansa was attached to her bastard brother, the knight in black who had been there for her when she fled her own home for safety.

Petyr couldn’t let Ned Stark’s illegitimate son remain the crown prince, for as long as it was so, the role of Lord Consort of the North would be powerless. There was no point of coveting it if it was ultimately useless.

And while Sansa could not be persuaded to choose Robin as her heir over her bastard brother, she definitely could be reasoned to favor her trueborn brother, Brandon Stark.

Though a cripple, the boy could still father heirs to the crown, and therefore his claim to the throne need not be dismissed on the account of his condition.

As the Hand of the Queen, Petyr had to ensure that the matter of her succession was incontestable. Truly, it was his _ duty _ to persuade the boy to contribute to the proper restoration of House Stark.

With her disable brother as heir, Sansa would be asked to take a husband, to have a _ true _ man help her rule and groom her successor.

And if between the queen’s marriage and her death the title of her husband changed to king, well, all the more reassuring for the good people of the North and the Vale!

For days, the Mockingbird had however been kept away from Brandon by his dark-haired sister—Arya Stark seemed much too ready to accidentally swing her tiny sword in his direction whenever he got close—and not just one, but two terrifying direwolves.

(Dragons, direwolves, and an army of the dead. What a terrifying time to walk the earth.)

But this early in the morning—it was still quite dark outside—Petyr was convinced that he could meet the crippled boy before he left his rooms.

His certainty became truth when he rounded one of the still undecorated corridors housing the royal family.

The Stark boy was just being wheeled outside of his bedchamber by the unexpectedly fetching daughter of Howland Reed—the likely future wife of the crippled prince, already trained to care for him—when Petyr made his presence known.

"Prince Brandon, you're leaving the Keep so soon? Breakfast has yet to be announced."

While the Reed girl—or woman? She seemed of an age with Sansa—looked surprised to see him, the Stark boy's eyes took him in as if he'd been expecting a visit.

"Lord Baelish," his youthful but stern voice greeted.

As Petyr planted himself in front of the chair, effectively blocking the two companions halfway through the door, he acknowledged his luck that fate had robbed the trueborn Stark boy of his legs: it was clear to see that he was taller than even Sansa. Had he grown with an able body, he would've made an ideal king in the North.

"I apologize for the interruption," the Southerner lied easily as he slightly bowed to the queen's brother to counter his calculated rude action. "But we had yet to be properly introduced. I took it upon myself to pay you a visit before leaving for Dragonstone on my first assignment as Hand of the Queen."

"We won't be long, Meera," the boy gently dismissed his lady friend with a confident gaze over his shoulder and a hint of a smile.

"I'll prepare your saddle first, then," the Northern woman announced just as calmly with a light touch of her hand on the covered shoulder of the cripple.

Ah, young love.

Baelish didn't feel offended that the crannogwoman only spared him a stiff nod before she walked away. 

Had this been the South, all who weren't Starks or didn't sit at the Council table would owe him a proper bow. As it was, Northerners were either ignorant of proper court etiquette or could not be bothered to abide by its rules. 

Hopefully Sweet Sansa, who was a proper lady, would bring a much needed touch of civilization and refinement to this primitive corner of Westeros.

"May I?" The politician requested as he side-stepped the chair to reach the push handles—what an ingenious contraption, that sliding chair—"I'm sure your room is more comfortable."

"Certainly, thank you," Brandon Stark replied politely.

The Southerner was impressed by the boy's near impeccable neutral Westerosi accent, though he did not believe that it was the product of Catelyn's influence, as she herself had eventually adopted some of her husband's crude accent.

While Sansa's diction used to favor a standard Southern accent, her voice now came with a subtle staccato, the rhythm typical of a Northern accent. Petyr couldn't tell if the change had been natural or was calculated.

Arya Stark's more pronounced Northern accent was colored by a hint of Valyrian—a language Baelish wished he had learned more seriously, in view of his upcoming meeting with Daenerys Targaryen—and Jon Snow sounded almost as unlearned as his wildling friends. 

If one closed their eyes, they would not be able to tell that the four children of Ned Stark had been raised in the same household.

Yet, every time the Mockingbird did open his eyes, he saw how much Sansa looked like Cat, and how much Jon Snow looked like Ned Stark. The resemblance haunted his dreams.

"It is good to know that one of Lady Catelyn's sons has made it back to Winterfell," Petyr declared as he placed the cripple in front of the only hair in the room before pushing the door, leaving it ajar instead of closing it.

He didn't want the boy to fear for his safety because of his next move.

"I particularly wanted to see you to turn in the dagger I saw your dear mother cling to during her quest to seek justice for what happened to you so many years ago," he shared before slowly taking the sheathed dagger out of a coat pocket.

He'd expected a more vivid reaction from the boy, but the cripple just stared at him dispassionately, and for a moment the crackle of the fire at his back became the only sound between them.

"This is for you," Baelish said after he unsheathed the Valyrian steel. 

He carefully flipped the weapon so he could offer it to the Stark boy hilt first.

"The last man who wielded it meant to cut your throat," he informed Caitlyn's last surviving son, "but your mother fought him off."

He slightly shoved the blade forward, and only then did the cripple take it silently, turning it over quite carelessly but inspecting it as reverently as he should.

"The other dagger, the one that took her life, I would have stopped that dagger with my own heart if I could have."

Once, those words had been true. Petyr had loved Catelyn dearly, and time and distance had barely attenuated his affection for her.

But then he had seen her with Ned Stark in King's Landing, and she had rejected his attempts to mend their broken friendship. She had never given him a chance to prove that he would have given her everything her foolish husband never could: riches, protection, and political power above her already elevated status as a lady of two Great Houses of Westeros.

He would have grieved her properly at the time had he not Sansa to protect, to care for, to groom and prepare for his grand plan.

He was so close now. He only needed to get rid of Sansa's bastard brother, the guard dog she was so readily giving the affection Petyr knew he himself would have to work for tirelessly even after marrying her.

"I wasn't there for her when she needed me most," Petyr continued, drawing from his remorse for Sansa's abuse to lend authenticity to his performance. "But I am here for her now. To do what she would have done, to protect her children."

Catelyn's children had been her greatest weakness. After Ned Stark's death, few had believed that any of the Stark pups would last long in the world, Petyr among them.

"Anything I can do for you, Brandon, you need only ask."

And once the cripple started trusting him, he would listen to his advice: replace Jon Snow as Sansa's heir, for just like the queen Brandon's true Stark blood had the family ties that conveyed him the legitimacy to rule the North and the Vale—and if he and Sansa played their cards right later on, the Riverlands. 

"Do you know who this belonged to?" The Stark boy asked evenly, as if he did not truly care to know the answer.

Maybe one day, years from now, Petyr would tell Sansa that he had lost the dagger to Robert Baratheon in a bet, and that Joffrey had then borrowed the weapon to get rid of her beloved brother.

"No," he lied. "That very question was what started the War of the Five Kings. In a way, that dagger made you what you are today. Forced from your home, driven out to the wilds beyond the Wall. I imagine you've seen things most men wouldn't believe."

That first part was a gross exaggeration, but the broken wolf likely didn't know the first thing about the War of the Five Kings. What was important was for him to believe that his sister's most trusted adviser valued him.

He handed the sheath to the cripple, and the young man stared at it before sliding the blade inside.

"This dagger is a Targaryen heirloom," he stated so confidently that it momentarily shocked the Hand of the Queen of the North and the Vale.

(What a lengthy title. At least once they assimilated the Riverlands Sansa could be coined Queen of the Three Kingdoms, or Queen of the Higher Westeros.)

Yes, after reflection, the Mockingbird noted that the Valyrian steel and dragonbone hilt did suggest that it was made for a member of House Targaryen. Any highborn male would recognize the make of this blade. 

Petyr had bought the dagger in King's Landing, from an old merchant who claimed that he used to work for Varys under the Mad King. Supposedly the valuable weapon had been gifted to him as compensation for his faithful service.

The merchant had become a reliable informant to Baelish for years, but had unfortunately been silenced after Jon Arryn's death.

"The last Targaryen to wield it was Rhaegar Targaryen," Brandon Stark resumed, his voice smooth but still lacking enthusiasm. "Did you know him, Lord Baelish? I remember being told that you were present at the Tourney of Harrenhal."

Petyr was frozen speechless for a few heartbeats, images of his younger self, beaten and humiliated, surfacing in his mind unbidden.

He remembered feeling hatred like he never would feel again for another Brandon Stark: Eddard Stark's elder brother, whom the cripple was likely named after.

The Mockingbird looked at the fire past the boy's shoulder, refusing to look at his face, unwilling to see physical similarities to Catelyn's first betrothed.

This Brandon Stark was Sansa's baby brother, the key to the fall of Jon Snow.

He was a valuable pawn on his gameboard, not a ghost from the past.

"Rhaegar Targaryen was one of the greatest warriors in the history of Westeros," Cat's last living boy said, and only then did Petyr realize that he hadn't answered the question.

"Indeed, I saw him win the tourney at Harrenhal," he contributed calmly with a nod, "he easily defeated four knights of the Kingsguard."

"He was known for his physical prowess, but less so for his beliefs," the boy stated cryptically.

Well, the man was dead, and if he'd ever left writings about what he believed in, the former master of coin was sure that Robert Baratheon had burned all of them. A fitting fate for the memoirs of the last Dragon Prince.

"Rhaegar believed in prophecies," Bran Stark claimed as he twisted the sheathed dagger in one hand. "He believed that the fate of his family was predestined, and did whatever he thought was needed to fulfill it."

"Then it would seem that the fate of his family was to be killed brutally," Petyr commented with a smirk. "After all, his actions precipitated Robert's Rebellion. Instead of only disposing of the Mad King, as had been the Great Lords' initial plan, Robert's forces decimated House Targaryen in retribution for what Aerys and Rhaegar did to your family, to House Stark."

And now the last Targaryen, the Dragon Queen, threatened to bring even more chaos to an unstable Westeros whose people were already doomed to perish by the hands of a so-called Night King.

"I myself believe that we make our own destiny," the experienced game player admitted to the younger man. "It would be quite hard to predict the fate of entire houses when this world is so often plunged into chaos at the whims of—"

"Chaos is a ladder."

The words flowed easily out of the cripple's lips, yet crashed like storm waves into Petyr's mind.

When he looked up into the boy's eyes despite himself, he saw his stunned face reflected in deep, brown orbs that seemed much older than Cat's boy was.

And in his head, for the first time since he started playing the game, Petyr Baelish saw himself fall.

The quiet wince of the door snapped him out of his stupor, and he blinked at Meera Reed, who blinked back before eyeing Brandon questioningly.

"Again, apologies for disturbing you so early in the morning, my prince," Baelish said as he stood up, hoping that uttering the title would smooth the awkward tension between them.

"I am not the prince," the cripple gently denied, his eyes on the dagger. "Jon is."

Too rattled by the impromptu meeting, Baelish did not let himself overthink the boy's word choice until he was almost to the queen's solar.

I am not _ the _ prince, not I am not _ a _ prince.

There could be many princes amongst the royal family, but only one of them was _ the _ crown prince.

Was Brandon Stark aware of his intention to remove Jon Snow from the line of succession?

That was possible, especially if Sansa shared her thoughts with all of her siblings, rather than with just Jon Snow as Petyr had first thought.

"Queen Sansa may not receive you this moment," Lady Brienne's voice took the Southerner out of his musings.

Here was the only other person with a clear neutral Westerosi accent that the Mockingbird knew.

Though a Southerner like him, the lady—knight?—of Tarth looked more like a rare breed of Northerner, her monstrous stature very much blending in with the crowd in the frozen lands. Only her blonde hair and shiny armor betrayed her as a foreigner.

"I am her hand and the first council meeting is in less than an hour," Petyr pointed out calmly though he was disappointed at Sansa's lack of preparation, "it would behove us all to remind her so."

The large woman did not acknowledge his words, but simply turned her head away from him to resume her guard.

The Hand of the Queen in the North was about to turn away and wait in the council hall when he heard a voice speak through the door, and it was not Sansa's.

That harsh, almost stuttering cadence. That low pitch.

Jon Snow.

"Is Sansa only talking to her brother?" He inquired from Lady Brienne. "I had hoped to speak to them both before the council meeting," he lied when the masculine woman scowled at him.

"Wait," the armored wench had the impertinence to order him before she brought her abnormally large fist to knock on the door to Sansa's solar.

No one replied to the call, but after a moment a furious Jon Snow tore the door open and without as much of a glance at either the guard or Baelish, walked away from the queen's office.

"I suppose Her Grace might receive me now," the Hand announced before stepping through the open door.

Gods, even after all this time, Petyr was not immune to Sansa Stark's beauty.

Her porcelain skin was presently enhanced by the blush of her cheeks—while she was likely as furious as her bastard brother, she was keeping her composure as a true lady would—her eyes blue like an idyllic summer sky, the cascade of fiery hair the most exquisite piece of decoration on any man's bed… 

Even seated on the mundane chair of her desk without her crown, the young woman looked regal.

As much as Petyr believed in meritocracy, he had to admit that Sansa was simply born to be queen. No one looked more fit to have people bow to her than Cat's daughter.

"I hope that Prince Jon does not intend to be late to the council meeting," he told her evenly, electing to sound indifferent rather than concerned by the implied argument that had just taken place.

"He needs not even attend it," Sansa replied in a clipped tone, and ah, no trace of Northern accent when she was taken by emotions.

So, she did understand that the delivery of her words, just like the choice of them, could literally affect people's opinion of her. Clever girl.

She had learned from the best, after all.

"Didn't you want your heir to learn how to rule with you?" He asked mildly.

"Not if he cannot see past the doom of the war against the army of the dead," the red-haired beauty argued as she glared at a scroll. 

The broken seal identified it as the message from the Targaryen queen—written by the Imp, an adversary Baelish was not happy to see resurface.

"I should have known better than to expect my base born brother to understand anything about politics," the Queen in the North stated, her frustration likely deeper than her tone let on if she was calling Jon Snow _ base born _.

"You must forgive his ineptitude in matters of the state," the Hand advised as he stood by the chair facing her, "it seems that all Northern men are only learned in the arts of war and inebriation" he added more lightly.

"Which is why cowards like the Boltons were able to rule them," the young queen confirmed with a frown, her brow smoothing as her eyes finally met his.

"I need to do better than Robb," she stated before lifting off her chair, the unnecessary move reminding the Mockingbird that she did not trust him to stand above her, even across a table.

"I of all people know for a fact that you are a better strategist than the last King in the North," he claimed confidently, "for you, unlike him, are letting your vassals believe that their opinions matter to you. It was known that the Young Wolf was stubborn in his decision-making, not even allowing Catelyn to council him. Otherwise you would have been freed from Joffrey and Cersei in exchange for Jaime Lannister's life."

The flex of her comely jaw confirmed that he'd hit a sore spot.

"Jon thinks that we need the dragons to defeat the army of the dead," she confided carefully as she pinched the scroll in front of her, and Petyr allowed her the abrupt change of subject.

"If fire truly is the weak point of these preternatural creatures, it would be prudent and dare I say convenient to have other preternatural creatures on our side," he indirectly agreed with the bastard.

All his work would be for naught if he died by the hand of some magical abomination. He did not know much about magic other than mundane means to counter it had little chance of prevailing.

"I need you to convince Daenerys Targaryen to join our ranks for the war against the Night King," the queen decreed.

"Isn't your brother supposed to appeal to her sense of honor, the way he convinced the Northern houses to fight for House Stark against the Boltons?" The Mockingbird could not quite help himself.

He knew that he had to play the long game, and did not mind much receiving orders from his own student, but he had to make sure that she knew to whom she truly owed her crown.

Jon Snow could not have nominated her as Queen in the North in the first place had Ramsay won the Battle of the Bastards, and that battle had been won by the Vale, on _his _ order.

"I will request, as humbly as my _ new position _ allows, that you do not ruin our fragile friendship with your underhanded comments, Lord Baelish," Sansa really demanded behind greeted teeth. "I did not make you my Hand so you could remind me of past mistakes, but so you could help me avoid making new ones."

"Forgive me, Your Grace," he apologized with a smooth bow of his head. "I will do as you command, of course, it is my duty and honor, truly."

He did let her see the veracity of his last words, though he was unsure if his hunger for her was properly hidden at the same time.

The cool look she leveled at him confirmed that he it was not.

"How do you plan on winning over the dragon queen, if not by appealing to her sense of honor?" she questioned evenly as she fully grabbed the parchment and walked towards the hearth.

"By offering her the support of the North against Cersei once the Night King is defeated," the game player proposed to his protégée.

She knew better than to object to lending her army to a foreigner, or to point out that the Northern lords would disapprove of this condition for the alliance.

She knew, more than anyone, that he always obtained what he sought for.

Therefore, in a more symbolic fashion than she could appreciate, the Queen in the North fed the letter from Dragonstone to the flames of the hearth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always appreciated!
> 
> Not gonna lie, I struggled writing Baelish's POV. I'm not satisfied with the final product of my extensive editing, but I had to let this chapter go.
> 
> I actually haven't read many GoT/AsoIaF fanfics written in Littlefinger's POV (maybe because Martin himself hasn't?). Only one comes to mind and I can't remember the title, all I remember is that it was a short Jonsa one-shot. Please drop a rec if you have any!
> 
> As you guessed, we're going to Dragonstone next chapter.
> 
> More Breera a bit later!


	8. The Hand to the Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion welcomes Jon Snow and Petyr Baelish to Dragonstone, and introductions are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit of rewrite from 7x03 and there are obviously major changes from what was on the show. Unbeta'd, feel free to point out mistakes!
> 
> If it's not clear in the chapter, know that an important detail of this timeline is that Melisandre told Daenerys that she and another person had a role to play in the Battle for the Dawn, but she didn't give a name.  
She therefore didn't advise Daenerys to summon Jon to Dragonstone (when I think back to it, why did D&D then make Daenerys act up and pull the disbelief card about the Night King, if she had it from high authority that Jon's war was THE war to fight?). In this fic, Tyrion wrote to the Lords of Riverrun, the Vale, and the North to come bend the knee to Daenerys. We'll learn what Edmure Tully thought of the summon later on.

It had taken Tyrion close to an hour to get from the palace to the beach at a leisurely pace. He’d had the good idea to bring a small flask of Dornish wine to keep him hydrated on the hike.

He found Theon Greyjoy waiting for the Northerners—and Littlefinger—with the Queen’s blood riders and a few Unsullied whose names escaped the Hand.

Yara Greyjoy had sailed for King’s Landing with only a small and fast ship. She was supposed to do a simple recon mission and report back within a few days.

Under Tyrion’s advice, Daenerys had sent most of the Unsullied to Casterly Rock.

The dwarf had wanted to go with Greyworm and attempt a peaceful seize of the Westerlands, but his queen had denied his request.

Daenerys hadn’t given him a reason for the refusal, but Tyrion suspected that she expected him to take the western-most kingdom of Westeros for himself, since his 'wife’ had already committed treason by elevating herself from Wardeness to Queen.

Had he not already sworn himself to the dragon queen, Tyrion definitely would have done so.

However, despite so many players popping up on the gameboard now that he was back in Westeros, the legitimate Lord of Casterly Rock had no intention of playing for himself.

As he looked up the sky and frowned at how close Rhaegal was getting to the beach, the Hand to the Queen of Dragons Bay and future occupant of the Iron Throne reminded himself that the game wasn’t about just one player coming up on top of the others. Not anymore.

Tyrion had unchained dragons that could’ve roasted him on the spot; he had negotiated peace with foreigners he had not an ounce of respect for; and he had exchanged jokes with former slaves. The stakes were different from what they had been before his exile.

Daenerys Targaryen was not just another contestant for the Iron Throne. She was a beacon of hope for Westeros, the bringer of long-lasting peace on a continent ravaged by wars for too long.

After all, what army general would dare charge dragons on the battlefield? What man with eyes and a cock would refuse to bend the knee to a kind-hearted and beautiful young woman, willing to break the cycle of betrayals and slaughtering that had plagued the realms of Westeros? And what Great House would rather live with the fear of Cersei holding the ultimate power in Westeros?

The Starks, apparently.

Oh, don't get him wrong, Tyrion was overly proud of Sansa for making it this far in the game, just as he’d predicted she would. However, he wished that she would continue to play the game safely as she’d done for years since the death of her dear father.

Crowning herself Queen in the North—and of the Vale!—_ after _ being summoned to bend the knee to Daenerys was a reckless move by Tyrion’s former wife. Sending her bastard brother as emissary was close enough to an insult that the Dragon Queen was justified in her fury—Tyrion had to inform her that Ned Stark’s illegitimate son was the most honorable man in the known world to placate her—and naming Petyr Baelish her hand, when she knew very well that Littlefinger only cared about his own interest, was downright idiotic of the former Lady of Winterfell.

How could she have given such power to the very man who had sold her to her family’s murderers, who had given her away to the highest bidder as if she had been one of his whores?

Maybe Sansa hoped that Littlefinger would irritate Daenerys so much that she would feed him to her dragons. Now,_ that _would be a fitting end for the Mockingbird passing for a falcon.

So here Tyrion was, coming down from the impressive fortress built by the Targaryens, to greet a ruthless player of the game—not quite to let him know that the rules had changed, but to remind him that his pieces were still too weak to guarantee him a victory.

Daenerys' first advisor also wanted to size up Ned’s Stark bastard son. Was he still the bitter, surly Northern boy Tyrion had left at the Wall all those years ago, or had he like his half-sister changed from being a mere pawn at the whim of the gods to being an active player of the game of life?

“Atchomar chomakea,” the dwarf carefully greeted the five blood riders after he exchanged “Rystsas” more comfortably with the two Unsullied.

The Dothraki men—where were all the women, by the way?—grunted their greeting back, their eyes up in the sky even though the small boat carrying Snow and Littlefinger was approaching.

Rhaegal’s screech seemed to be a fitting greeting as he flew over the Northerners and scared most of them shitless.

Theon Greyjoy was first to step closer to the water, his eyes trained on the leader of the group of visitors. The royal bastard was the only one who looked unconcerned by the brief encounter with Rhaegal, who was already flying back to the dragon landing by the castle.

In fact, Snow looked awed rather than terrified by the dragon.

Though he hadn’t grown much taller, the bastard of Winterfell looked much more mature than the last time the Lannister had seen him.

The scar over his eye was much more handsome than the dwarf’s own scar over his nose.

Trimmed beard, long jet black hair tied back into a low bun, light armor engraved with the Stark sigil… Had Sansa groomed him herself? He looked as dashing as a gallant knight from a bard's song.

Lord Baelish’s appearance leaned more on the elegant side. The Hand of the She-Wolf Queen wore the Arryn colors on his overcoat, but he had a thick chain representing two wolf sewn across the left side of his chest.

“Jon!” Greyjoy called out as the visitors got out of the boats to pull it ashore.

“I heard about Sansa,” the former Stark’s ward dumbly stated as his childhood acquaintance walked towards him. "I'm glad that she's safe."

“I’m letting you live despite your crimes only because you helped her get away from Ramsay,” Snow declared as he walked past Greyjoy to stand in front of Tyrion.

“Lord Lannister,” the Northern prince greeted sternly.

Gods, good thing he had not grown any taller, he looked enough like his dead father as it was.

“Please call me Tyrion, or Lord Tyrion, even _ Imp _ will do,” the dwarf offered with a polite but shallow bow to the younger man. “No need to sour our friendship with the reminder that my family has wronged yours.”

“We’re not friends,” the warrior denied curtly.

Tyrion couldn’t say that he missed that gruff Northern accent. How was this man related to the delicate Sansa, who looked and sounded very Southern?

“I’m a friend of your sister queen,” the dwarf pointed out.

“Are you?” Baelish’s _ too _ Southern accent joined in. “If you were, you wouldn’t have asked Her Grace to give away her birthright by bending the knee to your foreign queen, Lord Tyrion.”

Littlefinger’s wits were arguably still affected by the presence of the huge winged beast, otherwise he wouldn’t have stated such disputable facts so flippantly.

“I wrote to the _ Warden of the North _,” the Hand to Queen Daenerys reminded him, “whom I believed to be a Bolton at the time. I wrote to two more Wardens of Westeros, in fact. Are you not the acting Warden in the East, Lord Baelish?”

The dwarf noted the disdainful glance Jon Snow spared the Mockingbird. An older man in the Northern party who was shadowing Sansa’s brother seemed just as untrusting of their queen’s hand, though he also looked Tyrion askance.

“I was then, but I now am a faithful servant of Her Grace Sansa Stark, Queen of the North and the Vale,” that double-crossing vulture answered.

As much as Tyrion wanted to win a verbal spar against his fellow Southerner, he had a job to do.

Framed by the Unsullied and tailed by the Dothraki, the dwarf led the visitors on the long hike to the castle.

“There are two other beasts like the one we just saw?” Baelish inquired warily as he eyed Rhaegal, still in view by the grassy cliff.

“Yes, and one is twice as large,” the Hand of the Dragon Queen confirmed. “Do not worry, as long as you do not antagonise the Queen, her children will do you no harm.

“Children,” Snow repeated quietly with a frown.

The stone steps at the top of the cliff were the most challenging for the Lannister to climb, and he was grateful that Snow seemed to understand that. The Northern bastard stopped every few steps to let him catch up, pretending to appreciate the architecture of the castle or to look up Rhaegal, who seemed to be taking a nap now.

"It is said that Dragonstone has the largest mine of dragon glass," the royal bastard said conversationally as they finally reached the main gates.

"That is true," Tyrion confirmed once he caught his breath. "I've read that it's a bit brittle when melted the first time, but then it can be reshaped into a much stronger form, be it daggers or arrowheads"

Blood riders were posted throughout the front courtyard, but none of them paid attention to Tyrion and the guests.

"Speaking of weapons," the Hand segued as the blood riders flanking the group stepped ahead and wordlessly blocked the way to the main keep. "The Queen asks that you leave yours outside her hearing room."

The Prince of Winterfell didn't like it one bit, but before he could voice any protest Baelish intervened.

"Of course, we will respect the Queen of Dragon Bay's rules in the seat of power of her House," the other Hand announced loudly with his perpetual smugness. "I imagine that it's been an adjustment for her, coming from the much warmer Essos? Winter has just started here in Westeros, you see. In a few months, even the South will see snow."

Jon Snow removed his sword belt and almost knocked over the Dothraki rider he handed it to, then walked passed the other guards at a brisk pace.

Once past the door to the hearing room, he stopped so abruptly that Tyrion almost bumped his nose into his backside.

Ah, yes, seeing Daenerys Targaryen seated on that stone throne was quite the view. Tyrion imagined that, despite living with a very beautiful sister in Winterfell, Jon Snow was not immune to the otherworldly magnificence of the Dragon Queen.

Daenerys had very much adapted to the colder climate, her seamstresses having already fashioned her a wardrobe protecting her from the marine winds of Dragonstone.

The thick, high-collared charcoal dress contrasted beautifully with her white blonde hair. The end of a crimson half-cape rested on the queen’s lap, the rest of it hidden behind her back. The chain holding the cape to the young ruler’s shoulder intersected with her three-headed dragon brooch, which Tyrion found to be the most distinguished piece of the whole outfit.

Standing one step below Daenerys, the comely translator Missandei stood to her full height, looking down on the newly arrived just like her mistress—poor word choice! Her _queen_.

Tyrion walked as fast as he could without looking rushed in order to mirror the former slave from Naath on Daenerys’ right, standing at the ready as a good Hand should when the queen entertained visitors.

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful queen of the Andals and the First Men, protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains.” Missandei’s clear and melodious voice announced to the guests.

Jon Snow was still dumbly staring at the beautiful queen, but Baelish, ever prepared, handed a short piece of parchment to the man who seemed to be Jon Snow’s personal attendant.

He fumbled a bit—didn’t look or act highborn, that one—before clearing his throat and speaking with the volume of a sailor:

“If it pleases your Grace, before you stands Jon Snow of House Stark, Chosen Heir to Her Grace Sansa Stark, Queen of the North and the Vale; the Bastard of Winterfell, the White Wolf, 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, the Savior of the Free Folk, the Guardian of the Realms of Men. And to his right, the faithful advisor of Her Grace Queen Sansa, the Lord Hand Petyr Baelish, acting Lord of the Eyrie.”

Sansa’s brother seemed as dumbfounded by his lengthy list of titles as the rest of the room.

Ah, Littlefinger. Never missing a chance to leave his audience speechless.

“Your Grace,” the Mockingbird greeted with a slow bow, his arms extending behind him as he dipped his head.

“Queen Daenerys,” Jon Snow greeted in turn with a stiff nod, though the order of their speech was clearly wrong.

With a quick glance backwards, Tyrion could tell that Daenerys was not at all amused by the introductions.

How could she be? The bastard’s title had explicitly denied her right to rule two of the seven kingdoms of Westeros.

“998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Guardian of the Realms of Men,” the dwarf quoted out loud as he raised an eyebrow at Snow. “The last time I saw you, Lord Snow, you were ready to swear your life to the Night’s Watch. You did serve to become Lord Commander, but how is it that you have abandoned your life-long duty to become your sister’s heir?”

If the bastard prince was taken aback by the question, he didn’t show it.

“My watch ended,” he simply answered.

Tyrion frowned. To his knowledge, the phrase implied that a man of the Night’s Watch had died in service. It certainly didn’t mean that a sworn servant of the realms had deserted his post with impunity. 

“And who are these Free Folk that you 'saved'?” Daenerys asked calmly, a hint of curiosity in her voice.

“Most of Westeros know them as Wildlings,” Sansa’ brother replied gruffly. “And I didn’t _ save _ them,” he corrected Baelish with a glare before looking back at the queen, “I led them South of the Wall to evade the Army of the Dead.”

“The Army of the Dead?” the white-haired woman repeated with a scoff. “What a dreadful name. And under which designation does most of Westeros know this Army of the Dead?”

“Only the North is aware of the greatest threat humanity will ever know, Your Grace,” Snow assured. “It was my sister and queen’s wish that I inform you of its existence, and her hope that you would ally your army to ours to defeat the Night King.”

“I am getting dizzy with all these new names,” Tyrion jumped in. “The Night King? Who’s that, the ruler of this Army of the Dead I presume?”

“Yes,” the bastard replied.

If he'd sounded any more bored Tyrion would have offered to show him to his bedchamber so he could nap.

“I advise you speak plainly, Jon Snow,” Daenerys said as she stood from her seat and slowly walked the steps down to stand shortly ahead of Tyrion and Missandei. “Why did you come here, when your sister has usurped my rule on two of the Seven Kingdoms?”

“With all due respect, Queen Daenerys,” the heir to the throne of the North and the Vale started, “ruling the Seven Kingdoms is not your right, at least not by birth.”

Tyrion saw his queen’s hands ball into fists.

“But,” Littlefinger intervened, taking a step to stand closer to the queen, “Her Grace Queen Sansa promises to join your campaign to remove Cersei Lannister from the Iron Throne. Then you will be queen by _conquest_.”

“Queen of _ Five _ Kingdoms,” Daenerys pointed out through gritted teeth, her glare still on the bastard.

“Forgive my impertinence, Your Grace,” Baelish replied smoothly, “but you are already Queen of Dragons Bay, and a Khalessi, which as I understand is the equivalent of a queen for the Dothraki. That would make you the queen of seven kingdoms indeed.”

Tyrion would have laughed if he was certain that doing so would not earn him a brutal death. His queen did not jest when it came to her rule.

“You come here in my home to mock me?” Daenerys questioned Sansa’s Hand. “Do you know who I am, what I have been through to return to Westeros, after my whole family was decimated by Robert Baratheon and his allies, who included the Starks?”

Littlefinger’s only sign that he regretted his word play was a slow blink of his eyes. Jon Snow remained stoic in the face of the Dragon Queen’s rising anger.

"I spent my life in foreign lands,” Daenerys recounted. “So many men have tried to kill me. I don't remember all of their names. I have been sold like a brood mare. I have been chained and betrayed, raped and defiled. Do you know what kept me standing through all those years in exile? Faith. Not in any gods. Not in myths and legends. In myself. In Daenerys Targaryen. The world hadn't seen a dragon in centuries until my children were born. Yes, I am the Khalessi of the Great Grass Sea. The Dothraki hadn't crossed the sea. Any sea. They did for _me_. I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms of _Westeros_. And I _will_.”

“No one will be ruling any kingdom if we don't defeat the Night King,” Jon Snow countered solemnly. “We did not come here to declare ourselves your enemies, Your Grace. The dead are your enemy. They are the enemy of all of the living, and if you do not help us fight them, then you and Cersei Lannister will be quarreling over kingdoms filled with unnatural creatures, for if the North falls, _all_ of Westeros is doomed. The Great War will spare no one.”

“Unfortunately Jon Snow, our war against my sister has already started,” Tyrion informed the bastard. “Certainly, you do not expect us to halt hostilities and join you in fighting...Whatever you saw beyond the Wall?”

“We heard tales that Daenerys Targaryen was a benevolent soul,” Littlefinger said loudly. “The Breaker of Chains, _Mhysa_, who freed slaves from oppression and protected them from certain death and poverty. We appeal to your compassion when we ask you to assist Queen Sana's army in protecting not just her people in the North and the Vale, but the whole of Westeros, to which your title claims you are the protector.”

Tyrion noticed that Baelish could not see the fury in Daenerys’ pale eyes because his gaze had wandered beyond the queen's shoulder.

Varys and the Red Priestess had entered the room from its back door. 

“You!” the man who had announced Jon Snow and Littlefinger shouted once he saw Lady Melisandre.

Jon Snow seemed more disturbed than angry to see the red-haired woman, but he similarly wasn't happy to see her.

“What are you doing here?” Tyrion asked the Asshai woman.

“Making sure that we are ready for the Great War,” the sorceress replied calmly as she stepped right between the Queen and her visitors.

The Great War. She had used the exact same term as Snow.

Melisandre peered at Daenerys with her unsettling gaze, but the queen stared back without any indication that she felt intimidated.

The Red Priestess spoke in Valyrian, and Tyrion was about to request she switch to Westerosi when Missandei dutifully translated.

“I told you that I believe you have a role to play in the Long Night, Daenerys Stormborn, and that another champion had been chosen by the Lord of Light to bring the dawn when the Long Night falls. This man, this man knows what's coming, for he has stared into the darkness. He would have been lost to it had the Lord of Light not chosen him to fight the Great War.”

Melisandre had turned to face Jon Snow halfway through her speech, implying that he was the other person she believed would save the world from the evil she claimed was coming for all of humanity.

Oh, so this Great War business was not just a tale to manipulate Daenerys into leaving Sansa in charge of the North and the Vale.

Well, now the situation had just turned from ludicrous to terrifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter closely following the show's story line. Let's see if I can do better than D&D!
> 
> I will hopefully post the Breera chapter later this weekend. It's a shorter one.


	9. The Crippled Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Breera moment I promised plus a short Stark Siblings moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this later than planned, my bad.
> 
> There's no plot whatsoever in this chapter, so if you're not a Breera fan I won't hold it against you for not reading. Sansa's POV should be next.
> 
> Warning for sexual assault. It's pretty bad for our modern standards, but nowhere near as bad as that type of situation could get in this universe. If that might cause you discomfort, please skip 
> 
> From: "Oh"! Denna explained loudly  
To: Bran's horror morphed into anger...
> 
> Edit: A bit of a rant about Bran in the show in the endnotes.

The day had started with a rare quiet morning in Winterfell, quiet enough that Sansa had joined Bran and Arya by the weirwood tree in the godswood after breakfast.

Bran had meant to gift Arya with Rhaegar Targaryen's dagger, and though his sister had been excited to admire the Valyrian steel weapon, she informed him that she already had an extensive arsenal of knives on her person. Also, her skill with a blade wasn't her only weapon against enemies.

The Three-Eyed-Raven found it fascinating that so many members of his family had acquired gifts that escaped the understanding of most people.

Even Sansa had the power to skinchange, though she did not seem aware of it.

Bran had discovered his sister's gift accidentally when staring into the flames of the hearth in his bedchamber—which Sansa had occupied as Lady Bolton.

The young man would have given away his greensight to be able to forget the memory that had revealed his sister's gift.

Brandon was sorry that he could not express words of comfort to Sansa about her experience as Ramsay's wife, as doing so would betray that he had witnessed her being defiled by the cruel bastard.

What he could do, however, was help his eldest sister develop her powers. He did not know which animals she had previously controlled to mentally escape Ramsay's abuse, but he knew that as a Stark she was a potential warg.

Arya was definitely one, he could tell from her recount of the fight against the Dustin soldiers.

So on that quiet morning, Bran taught his two sisters to take Nymeria and Ghost's skins.

It went very well, though Brandon should have expected it to be so. Arya was trained to be a faceless girl, she had more than the required mental focus to impersonate non-humans.

It took Sansa a bit longer to make Ghost's body move naturally. In fact it took Arya's guidance—something about stitching that the young man did not quite catch—for the eldest surviving Stark to get better control of her warg powers.

While Bran and Arya smiled proudly at her, the young queen got teary with emotion.

"I thought that I was different from you all because I lost Lady so early, that I was _broken_…" she confessed quietly.

Bran knew that Sansa's bond with Ghost would never be as strong as Jon's, but it was good enough. She might look more like their lady mother than their father, but Sansa was of the North, a direct descendant of some of the most powerful wargs in history just like Bran and Arya and Jon.

When Arya went on a short run across the godwoods with Nymeria's body, Sansa announced that she had to leave to attend to her duties. Ghost dutifully trailed after her.

"I promised Lady Brienne that I would help train the new recruits," Arya informed Bran sheepishly once she returned to her body shortly after.

"Of course you can go, don't worry about me," he reassured her with a smile. "I need to check if I can locate the army of the dead, anyway."

His endeavor to spy the Night King or at least some of his White Walkers had been unsuccessful for the past few days, as snow storms were raging beyond the Wall, making it difficult for his ravens to take flight.

Unsurprisingly, it was the same today, though Brandon's intuition told him that he might be successful in finding the enemy very soon.

Willing to return to the warmth of the keep, Bran looked for Meera through a raven. 

If Lady Brienne was asking for Arya's help in the training yard then Meera was possibly unavailable to do so herself, so the Three-Eyed-Raven made the bird look through the windows of the Guest Hall.

He found his friend sitting in front of her father at a table of the dining area.

_ "Lord Fenn and Lord Greengood have unwed sons, either of whom would be honored to join our House and wear our name," Lord Reed said. _

_ "Is it not premature to arrange my marriage?" Meera questioned as she stared at the table. "We still have to defeat the Night King." _

_ "We will win the war," her father asserted. "Many will die, but Ned's children will bring us to victory. You have done your duty bringing Brandon Stark back to Winterfell alive and well. Once the war is over your duty will be to insure the prosperity of our family, so that House Reed can remain a steadfast vassal to House Stark for generations to come." _

_ "I understand that," Meera assured him flatly. _

_ "Do you, daughter?" Lord Howland questioned softly. "I know that your Lady Mother and I haven't done a great job grooming you to become the next Lady of Greywater Watch. To be quite frank, we hoped that Jojen would succeed me once his mission beyond the Wall was completed. He had been equally comfortable indoors as outdoors, and his inclination toward the pursuit of knowledge made him a natural leader. But you've always been an explorer of the wild and a fighter. It pains me to ask you to give up your freedom, but it's for the good of our House, of our people, and of the realm." _

_ "I understand," Meera repeated. _

Bran returned to himself, the forlorn expression of Meera fading in his mind but making his heart ache.

He'd known. He'd known that his time with her was counted the moment they had left Castle Black.

It didn't hurt any less. He had lost so much since the day he'd lost his legs, yet here he was, on the verge of tears over saying goodbye to the person who understood him the most. 

The woman who had protected him from harm for years, who had seen him change from a broken boy to the Three-Eyed-Raven, who had made him feel human and not so broken at times by evoking feelings and desires able men experienced. 

The woman who had been his home when the Winterfell of his childhood was turning into a faded memory, and who had safely brought him back to his family.

The woman Brandon loved without any hope of having his feelings returned. He knew that he was just a surrogate younger brother to Meera, after she'd lost Jojen.

"...ce? Prince Brandon?" A voice called, and the cripple hurried to wipe his tears as he heard the crunch of approaching footsteps at his back.

"Apologies if I'm disturbing, Your Grace," the female voice resumed.

Oh. It was Denna, his chambermaid. She was very discreet and never made any untoward comments about him, not to his face nor behind his back when she gossiped with the other servants.

He had stopped correcting her that he wasn't to be addressed as "Your Grace" since he wasn't the heir prince. Jon was.

"I saw the Queen and Princess Arya return without you," the commoner told him hesitantly as she eyed Nymeria.

"I would like to go back too, thank you Denna," the cripple requested.

He made Nymeria remain by the weirwood tree as he didn't want the servant to be scared.

"Would you like some wine?" the young woman offered once she brought him to his room.

"No, thank you Denna," here refused politely.

"A bath, maybe?"

That made Brandon look up at the servant.

Did he stink? Surely Sansa or Arya would've told him…

"Oh! Master Wolkan said that it was good for your muscles!" Denna quickly explained. "Your arms get a lot of exercise, you train with the bow all the time…"

"That's true," Brandon confirmed out loud as he focused on his body and realized that indeed the muscles of his arms, chest and shoulders were sore.

"I'll fetch hot water, then!" the chambermaid announced cheerfully.

Halfway through Denna filling up his bathtub, Bran belatedly felt uncomfortable removing his clothes.

Denna had helped him wash a few times before, but she had done so quietly, allowing him to pretend that he was alone.

For whatever reason, the former Bolton servant was in a very good mood today and was trying to engage the cripple in a conversation.

"Her Grace is sewing a new dress, the color compliments her eyes so beautifully," the Northern young woman stated as she helped Bran lower into the comfortably hot water. 

"She's so beautiful, our queen," Denna commented dreamily. "Her hair...Even when it was dark and dull like mine when she arrived in Winterfell—oh! I mean when she returned to Winterfell…"

Brandon tuned out the servant's voice as he stared into the steamy water.

He let his mind wander to one of his fondest albeit shameful memories of his time beyond the Wall.

Meera and him had taken shelter in a cave heated up by hot springs. The Reed woman had poorly hidden her delight in having the opportunity to wash properly.

It had been one of the few times that Bran had seen her out of her furs.

He hadn't meant to peak at her in a state of undress, but the vision his mind had latched onto had been bloody and violent so he had returned to his body earlier than planned.

Unlike most ladies who wore shifts as undergarments, Meera wore braies and an under tunic like him. She had bathed in them, and despite the low lighting of the cave Bran had been able to admire her silhouette as the wet clothes clung to her skin . She had strong legs and toned arms but still had curves that made Bran's mouth go dry and the parts of his body that could still feel shiver.

He'd rushed into his next vision to ignore the urge to ask his friend if he could help her dry her hair—hair grooming was the only skill he had retained from his childhood, since Sansa had patiently taught him everything she'd learned from their lady mother.

To this day, Bran hadn't mustered the courage to offer Meera to brush her thick curly hair that always smelled of snow and a little bit of sweat…

"Oh!" Denna exclaimed loudly enough to bring Brandon back to the present.

And he almost died of mortification upon seeing that he was erect, the suds of the soapy water not foamy enough to hide him. 

Why, why had _ that _ part of his body not gone useless along with his legs?

"It's okay, my prince," the chambermaid reassured him quietly.

Bran was about to sigh his relief when one of the hands that had been scrubbing his back sneaked to his front and dipped into the water to touch him _ there _.

"I don't mind helping out," Denna whispered in his ear, and Bran wanted to lean away from her but he was just frozen.

"I could use my mouth if you want?" the servant kept going as her fingers and palm started _ moving _. "That way we won't soil the water…"

No, no no nononono...

Brandon felt his consciousness slipping away from his body, trying to escape this most embarrassing experience.

He didn't want Denna to do what she said she could, but he didn't want to offend her with a rejection. After all, how vexed would a woman be, to be denied by a _ cripple_? She might start talking about him in the servants' quarters, about how he wet his bed most days, and needed help to use his chamber pot, oh and how he couldn't keep his supper down when he had horrifying flashes of memories…

But it was difficult to fly away because he truly did not like how Denna's hand was making him feel, he didn't want to feel that way at all, it was worse than when he did it himself beneath his fur trying not to think of Meera—

"Please go," Bran managed to say clearly, his voice breaking immediately as tears wet his cheeks.

"Your Grace?" the servant said, confusion clear on her face through the Three-Eyed-Raven's blurry vision. 

"Don't touch me, go, _ leave! _" he ordered in one breath, his voice loud but not overly so.

Denna removed her hand as if he'd burned her and scrambled to her feet, but she didn't leave.

Bran's horror morphed into anger and impatience as she remained in his peripheral vision, and he was about to shout at her when he saw her face.

She was crying—_she_ was crying?—and shaking furiously.

What?

"What's—what's wrong?" He couldn't help but ask.

Father and Mother always cared for the servants, never let one go unhappy. Brandon might not know his role as a Stark, but he knew that asking was right.

Denna kept quiet, her gaze down to her feet.

"Denna, what's wrong?" he repeated with as much authority as he could convey in his voice.

Her eyes widen and she obeyed right away, her words spilling over like her renewed tears.

"I displeased you, so I deserve my punishment, milord—forgive me, Your Grace!—but my little brother Hayden, he hasn't done anything, he's joined the army to fight for Queen Sansa, he's going to be useful, please don't punish him too, I beg of you…"

It took a few heartbeats for Bran to compartmentalize his humiliation so he could make sense of his chambermaid's words. Then he almost slapped himself in the forehead.

Denna, like half of the female servants in Winterfell, had served the _Boltons_ for years. She expected cruelty to be her liege's response when angered or upset.

Brandon _was_ upset, but he had no intention of harming her.

"Denna, I won't punish you the way you think I will," the cripple slowly informed the commoner. "All I want is that you leave me alone for the next few days...actually I won't require your services anymore. No, wait, don't cry! There are other tasks to be done in the castle, get assigned somewhere else. I'll tell Sansa or Arya to talk to Hilda if she gets angry with you. You will remain employed in our household, and _ nothing _ will happen to Hayden within these walls, I swear to you."

It took longer than Bran would've liked for Denna to believe him, but she did eventually and thanked him profusely and wished him blessings from the old gods before finally exiting his room.

Mentally exhausted, the cripple leaned to the side of the bathtub, his head down on his hands, the water getting tepid as he tried to make peace with what had just happened.

All of it because he had daydreamed of Meera—

"Bran?"

As if summoned by his thoughts, his friend entered through the door that Denna had left ajar.

Brandon kept his head down.

At least he was still too much in shock to be embarrassed by his nudity—his member had gone flaccid a while ago.

"Bran! Why are you alone?" Meera asked as she closed the door and rushed to his side. 

And stupidly, even with his nose down, Brandon could tell that the woman of his dreams had bathed recently herself, for she smelled of scented oils and crispy dry clothes—she had traded her furs for tunics, breeches and cloaks.

"Bran, what's wrong?" His friend questioned softly as she grabbed a towel from the chair behind him. "What happened? Where's Denna?"

"I told her to leave and get reassigned to another part of the castle," he answered truthfully as he finally lifted his head to stare at Meera's concerned face.

Gods, she was so beautiful. Bran could not comprehend that there was a time when he wasn't aware of that truth. 

"Why? What did she do? What did she do to _ you?_" The future Lady Reed interrogated him, reminding Bran that she was not just beautiful but loyal and caring and brave and strong…

"Don't go," he blurted out, making her blink her pretty eyes.

"What? Of course I won't leave, I'll help you dry and get dressed," she reassured him as she gently pushed him upward to sit up. "I can talk to Hilda about finding you a new chambermaid, would you like that?"

The cripple simply nodded, defeated by her misinterpretation of his words.

He used memories of their harsh journey beyond the wall to suppress the pleasure of having Meera's hands touching his naked flesh. 

By the time he was dressed in too wide breeches—they would fit if his legs weren't atrophied from disuse—and a doublet so elegant that Bran suspected had been sewn by Sansa herself, the crippled prince felt content again. 

He was back in Winterfell surrounded by his surviving family; his half-brother who was truly his cousin was likely the one who would defeat the Night King; his dear friend had a bright future as the Lady of Greywater Watch.

Why should he ask for anything more? The gods had been generous enough letting him survive this far.

They had taken his legs but given him wings. He was the Three-Eyed-Raven. Until the Night King was defeated, he had a role to play, a mission he ought to complete successfully to insure the survival of the human race…

"Bran, Bran, stay with me," Meera told him sharply as she briefly touched a hand to his cheek.

He had started to slip away into a vision, but the earnestness in her voice and gaze gave him pause.

"I'd like for us to talk," his friend requested quietly.

"What is it?" Brandon asked, mildly alarmed.

"It's nothing bad, don't worry I'm alright," she reassured him with a flat smile. "Everything is fine, it's just. I'd like for us to talk."

"About what? My archery lessons? I've improved, have I not?" the youngest surviving Stark questioned, confused.

He shut up when Meera pulled the now empty chair and sat to face him in his rolling chair.

He waited long minutes, not sure what to make of the signs of uncertainty coming from his companion. She was wringing her hands. Her very capable, strong hands that never faltered.

"What's wrong, Meera?" He asked, vaguely aware of the difference he felt asking her rather than Denna.

The Reed woman stared at her fidgety hands for a little longer before locking eyes with him.

"Jojen is gone, so I'll be Lady Reed. After the war."

Oh. Should he tell her that he already knew?

"You already know," she guessed right away. "The raven at the window…That's okay, Bran," she added before he could apologize. "What did you hear?"

"That you have marriage offers from Lord Fenn and Lord Greengood," he answered.

She nodded, looked away at the window, then looked back at him.

"My husband will take the Reed name," she told him.

"I know that too," he admitted.

"I'm not very good at sewing and keeping a castle, but I'll learn," she added. "I'm healthy, and still young, I know that I can bear strong children."

Bran refrained from saying that he knew all that too. He _ knew _ her. She would be a reliable lady, a dutiful wife and caring mother. _ If _ she survived the Great War.

"I don't mind too much marrying for duty, I am my father's sole surviving heir after all, " she resumed. "I don't mind, but...I always thought that I'd have the freedom to choose my husband."

Brandon's heart ached for her.

"My parents' marriage was arranged but in the end they had a lot of affection for each other," he informed her, hoping that it would make her feel better.

"I guess it's hard for me because I already have a lot of affection for someone," Meera replied.

The crippled prince felt his heart drop.

Who? Since _ when_?

"Someone at Greywater Watch?" he asked, thinking of using his greensight later on to find out himself. "I never asked about your and Jojen's lives before you left your home…"

"Oh," his friend said quietly as her dark eyes searched his. "You don't know?"

About a man she had loved all these years but whose name she had never mentioned during their conversations? No, he didn't!

"Bran, _you're_ the one I have a lot of affection for," Meera told him so simply that it took the Three-Eyed-Raven a few breaths to register the meaning of her words.

When he did, he felt as if his heart and lungs had stopped working.

"Bran?" she called as she placed her hand on top of his on the armrest of his rolling chair, and he took a few shallow breaths as his heart started running faster than the hares fleeing Meera's arrows during a hunt.

"Say something," the woman said quietly, hesitation seeping into her voice.

"You'll be stuck with me for the rest of your life," he stupidly said. "If you marry a cripple you won't be able to do normal things ladies do, like...dance—"

Her chuckle shut him up, and though he wanted to return the warm smile she gave him, he was frozen from how she moved her hand against his to interlace their fingers.

"We've known each other for years," she reminded him, "do I seem like a proper lady to you? Would you compare me to Her Grace Sansa?"

"You're more like Arya," he admitted with a blush.

"Exactly," she agreed with a firm nod before taking a serious tone as she slid off her chair to kneel close to him. 

"Like Arya, the only dance I know is the one requiring weapons," she added. "If I survive the war, I won't want to do that dance anymore. I'm tired of fighting. I want to go home and rest and do my duty as Lady Reed, but I also want to be with you, Bran. For the rest of my life. If you want that too."

"I want you," he blurted out, "no, I mean, I want to be with you…Meera?"

She had brought her face so close to his that he could count her lashes.

"I want to kiss you," she confessed in a whisper, her breath brushing Bran's parted lips.

Brandon Stark had never kissed anyone before, but he had seen his parents kiss when he was a child, and he had seen a lot of people kiss in his visions. He had realized that he was in love with Meera the day he'd thought that he wanted to kiss her.

So after assessing the earnestness of Meera's request, the cripple placed his free hand in her luscious hair and drew her even closer to brush his lips against hers. 

At first their noses bumped against each other, which made them both giggle, but when they tilted their heads in opposite directions their next kisses were better. So much better that Bran felt arousal surface again, so he pulled away. 

"Can I brush your hair?" He finally asked, even though the sight of Meera's flushed cheeks and blown up eyes and swollen lips made him want to do things that would dishevel her tresses rather than smooth them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still a Jonsa fic, I promise! There will be a teaser of that ship next chapter, but the slow burn tag is there for a reason (it won't be THAT slow, though!)
> 
> My rant about Bran on the show: while I could get behind the idea of Bran becoming more emotionally detached the longer he remained the three-eyed-raven (since his predecessor was like that too, but Bran never finished his training so that's debatable), I didn't think that the timing was well done. Why would it take one year and a half for Meera to realize that Bran had changed? She couldn't have spent all that time just pulling him and never talking to him to figure out his new personality. To me if felt like a shock value device rather than a thoughtfully planned transition.
> 
> Also, when I compared Bran to other characters with traumatic magical experiences like Arya, Jon or Daenerys, I couldn't help but think that they were mistreating the one physically disabled character of the show, or at least the most innocent person amongst the main characters. Yeah this is GoT and shit happens to good people, but Arya got Gendry, Jon got Ygritte then Daenerys, Daenerys got Daario then Jon (Sansa's heavily inspired by a real life historical figure so gonna let D&D off the hook there). They got a little TLC along the way. But Bran never got to experience romantic love or even physical attraction to anyone. Not cool. 
> 
> I wonder if D&D made him KotSK in the end (and Tyrion his hand) to appease people who would've justly accused them of doing an injustice to a disabled character in such a popular show. I'm not disabled so my opinion might not have any weight for this particular character, but I care about representation in popular media and 'creepy peeping paraplegic boy' ain't it, chief.


	10. The She-Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa makes plans with Arya and Bran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have more Stark siblings moments before it all goes to hell.
> 
> Seriously guys, I'm starting to sympathize with D&D now that I'm totally diverging from the source material...Kidding! They had a whole team of writers and a whole lot of money, so they had zero excuse.

_ "Last night you said—" Jon objected. _

_ "I remember what I said last night, Jon!" Sansa interrupted him as she turned away from the hearth to face him. _

_ "Being a Targaryen would put you in danger, Jon," she kept going. "Even if the Dragon Queen welcomes you as her long-lost nephew, even if she wants to connect with you as the only other living Targaryen…She's made a lot of enemies, and she's coveting the Iron Throne. If you reveal your parentage, you will become an even bigger target to Cersei, just like she is. You don't care for politics, but telling your secret to Daenerys Targaryen _ will _ put you in the sight of every player of the game of thrones, with no exception. You won't be able to focus on defeating the army of the dead because you will have to navigate the treacherous world of schemers and killers first." _

_ She took a deep breath after that long-winded tirade, and waited for Jon's reaction. _

_ From precedent arguments she expected him to either present a counter argument just as passionately, or to shut down and leave after calling her 'Your Grace.' _

_ "You still care," he said instead, awe in his voice. _

_ "What?" she reacted quite rudely. _

_ "You still care about me," Jon specified. "About my safety." _

_ "Of course I do, Jon, why wouldn't I?" She questioned him as she took an involuntary step closer to him, which he mirrored. _

_ "I'm not your brother," he pointed out quietly, "I'm just your cousin…" _

_ "Like Arya said, it doesn't—" _

_ "Arya has always cared for me, ever since we were children," Jon recalled, his wide eyes searching hers as they kept closing the distance between them. " _ You _ didn't. You only came to me at Castle Black because you thought that I was the last of your kin." _

_ "I was selfish and stupid as a girl," Sansa admitted for the hundredth time since her father's death. "But I knew that you would protect me. You've always been a good person, Jon." _

_ She slowly took his hand, his too warm hand that she wanted to uncover and feel skin to skin. _

_ "How can you be so sure about that?" Jon asked her before using their linked hands to pull her against him. _

_ The Queen in the North gasped in surprise, but before she could step away and ask her heir what he was doing, he grabbed the base of her braid and made her look at him. _

_ "You shouldn't trust me, Sansa," he advised in a whisper, but they were so close that she could hear him clearly despite the frantic beat of her heart resonating in her ears. _

_ "I was killed and raised from the dead," he reminded her. "You should be _ scared _ of me." _

_ "You're my brother, Jon, I'm not scared of you," the queen mouthed more than spoke, a thrilling shiver trickling down her spine at the dark edge his voice carried. _

_ "You're calling me 'brother', still?" he questioned lightly as his hand released hers and migrated upwards, snaking up her arm and across her shoulder before cupping the side of her face. _

_ Sansa kept still despite the internal fire her brother—no, _ cousin _ —was fanning inside her with his touch. _

_ "That's alright," he reassured her as he swept a gloved thumb across her cheekbone, then down to the corner of her lips. _

_ "Targaryens bed their sisters, don't they?" _

_ "Jon!" The queen tried to admonish him, but he tightened the hold on her hair and looked at her with a heat rivaling the one curling in her belly. _

_ "Admit it, you _ want _ me," he demanded, his lips so close to her face that she felt their movement across her skin. "Tell the truth, _ Your Grace _ . Tell me why you want to keep me a prince in the North while I could be a King with my aunt in the South." _

_ Something in Sansa snapped. Her dignity, her honor, her morals, all of the above. She didn't care anymore. _

_ "Because you're _ mine _ ," she growled like the She-Wolf that she was. _

_ Not the gentle She-Wolf the Northern soldiers thought she was, but the ferocious and hungry one the world had forced her to become. _

_ And she slightly dipped her head and licked her cousin's lips before devouring him, moaning in satisfaction when she realized that he was submitting to her control. _

_ Yes, Jon was hers, hers _ alone _ . Not Arya's, or Bran's, and most definitely not Daenerys Targaryen's… _

"Sansa, wake up!" Arya's voice called as the queen felt something nudge her foot.

She barely contained her whimper of dismay.

_ A dream. _

She'd dreamed of kissing Jon, of molesting him. It had felt so real because the dream was based on the memory of their real argument about Jon telling his parentage to Daenerys Targaryen the day before his departure.

The major difference was that in reality, Jon had stomped out of her solar with a gruff 'Very well, Your Grace,' after she’d explained to him why divulging his secret was imprudent.

Jon had still showed up to the council meeting but hadn’t spoken a word in it, and he'd only told Sansa stiff goodbyes before leaving for White Harbor because she had been in Arya's chambers at the time of his departure, and _ of course _ Jon wouldn't leave without saying goodbye to his _favorite_ sister.

"What time is it?" The queen questioned, her voice croaked from disuse. "Why are you here?"

"It will be dawn soon," Arya informed her. “Bran said it’s urgent.”

Still reeling from the subconscious manifestation of her twisted desire for Jon, the older Stark sister stumbled out of bed and draped one of her mother’s cloaks over her woolen shift.

Sansa had cried in relief and sorrow when she had found her mother’s clothes the first time she had returned to Winterfell. Walda Bolton had been too heavy to fit into the former Lady of Winterfell’s clothes, so Sansa had been able to save them for when she’d have time to adjust them for herself. The time had never come, not after Ramsay had shown his true colors.

Channeling strength from the memory of her caring mother, Sansa walked with Arya and Brienne to Bran’s chambers.

The queen wasn’t surprised to see Meera Reed attending to her younger brother. 

For a reason the Stark Prince was unwilling to disclose, Denna wasn’t his chambermaid anymore. Meera was looking for a new one for Bran, but until then she was spending even more time with him than before.

Had Howland Reed’s daughter not been the person who had kept her brother safe all these years, the Queen in the North would’ve felt compelled to put a stop to her inappropriate closeness with Bran. The servants and even some of the Lords were talking.

Maybe Sansa should consult Lord Howland to arrange a union between the Stark and Reed Houses in order to quiet the gossips.

“I’ll let the cooks know that you’re ready to break your fast, Your Graces,” Meera smoothly dismissed herself with a bow before leaving the room, the fire well-stoked and an additional chair added to face Bran’s.

“Are we paying her to do all this?” Arya bluntly asked her elder sister after staring at the closed door. “You should pay her,” she advised the queen, oblivious to the blush on her younger brother's cheeks.

“The Night King and his army are marching towards the Wall. Slowly, but surely.” the Three-Eyed-Raven told his sisters as they took their seats. “There are at least a hundred thousands of them.”

A solemn silence fell between the surviving children of Ned and Catelyn Stark. 

Sansa couldn't even picture such a large number gathered as one army. That sounded like all of the hungry people in King's Landing, united. She shuddered in dread at the memory of the riot she'd been caught into back at the capital. Had it not been for the Ser Clegane, she would have died then.

“How long do we have?” she inquired quietly.

“Two moons, maybe less, until they arrive at the Wall,” the greenseer estimated. “There are magical spells slowing them down, but the Wall itself won’t stop the Night King like it was supposed to when Brandon the Builder erected it.”

“Why not?” Arya questioned.

“He marked me in a vision,” their brother said as he pulled his right sleeve, showing them what looked like a frostburn on his forearm. “He's a greenseer too. Since that time, I've used ravens to spy on him rather than look with my own eyes. Wherever I physically go, he can follow now, regardless of magical barriers.”

“Then we'll just have to kill him,” Arya proposed firmly.

She sounded more confident than Sansa felt, and Bran didn’t look very optimistic either.

“Finding him through my ravens has proven difficult,” the Three-Eyed-Raven confessed. “I’m only certain that he’s on his way because all his twelve White Walkers have been gathering troops of wights and leading them Southwards from different starting points.

“Sorry, I forgot,” Sansa apologized, “but what’s the difference between White Walkers and wights? Why are there only _twelve_ White Walkers?”

“White Walkers aren’t revived dead people,” Bran answered. “They’re male descendants of the First men that the Night King turns into his kin when they’re newborns.”

“That’s horrible!” the young queen commented.

“The Night King is _evil_, what did you expect?” Arya replied.

“There used to be more than twelve White Walkers,” the Three-Eyed-Raven continued, “Leaf and the other Children of the Forest killed most of them, at the cost of their own survival as a people.”

The whole story was too unreal for Sansa to remember all the details, but she did remember that the Children had powerful magic and had originally created the Night King.

“From what I’ve seen, the Night King alone can revive the dead, but the White Walkers can also command them. The White Walkers channel the magic that animate wights so they can walk even when the Night King isn’t close. Distance might be the only flaw in the Night King's control over the dead, but if so he compensates for it through his generals.”

“Twelve White Walkers,” Arya said as she looked between her two siblings. “Am I the only one seeing an easy solution to the end of this war? Instead of waiting for the army of the dead to knock at our door, we could go beyond the Wall, find those twelve guys, and kill them. That would leave only the Night King.”

“Did you forget the part where each White Walker can command undead soldiers who don’t sleep or even tire?” Sansa chided her. “Don’t be ridiculous, Arya. If even the Children of the Forest died trying to exterminate these White Walkers, then they must be near impossible to kill.”

“Anyone can be killed,” Arya insisted.

Sansa looked at Bran for support, but his pensive frown suggested that he was giving Arya’s idea some merit.

“Bran, no,” the eldest Stark pleaded.

“I don’t know much about war strategy other than what I’ve read in books and seen in visions,” the young prince warned, “but I think that Arya’s idea could work with some adjustments. But we would need more men. I’ll ask Jon when he returns.”

“That won’t be until another fortnight at best!” Arya pointed out. “And where will we get more men by then? We have no guarantee that the Dragon Queen will lend us her dragons _ and _ her armies.”

“_I_ can get us more men,” Sansa announced calmly.

She’d anticipated making a move on the gameboard, just not before the Great War. It might be better to do it now, however, when Littlefinger was away.

She could admit to herself that Jon had been right on one point, the night of their heated argument about his secret: she couldn’t owe another favor to Lord Baelish.

She didn’t need him, not anymore, whatever he himself thought.

Sansa had learned from him, just as she had learned from many others: her Mother, Margaery, Cersei, even Ramsay.

She wasn't a mere pawn anymore. She was a queen now, a She-Wolf. And winter was here.

“Were there houses other than the Umbers and the Karstarks left to swear you fealty?” Arya questioned, confused. 

“Not Northern men,” the Queen of the North and the Vale explained as she stood up, displaying the trouts outlined along the seams of her cloak. “We are the children of Catelyn Stark, née Tully. The Riverlands are bound by honor to come to our aid if called.”

“_Not _ when they’re led by our cowardly Uncle Edmure,” Arya pointed out. “He’s a Lannister puppet, you know that.”

She did, truly. There was only one way to get the numbers they needed.

“Are the Lannisters still in Riverrun?” Sansa asked Bran.

She forced herself to watch as her baby brother’s eyes rolled in their sockets, and waited until they rolled back to normal.

“No, they’ve moved to the Reach,” the Three-Eyed-Raven informed them.

“You exterminated the Freys,” Sansa reminded Arya. “There’s no one stopping us from going to Riverrun and asking Uncle Edmure to bend the knee.”

“Bend the knee?” Arya echoed her with wide eyes. “You want to assimilate the Riverlands into your kingdom?”

“_Our_ kingdom,” the queen corrected her younger sister. “You’ve said it yourself, Uncle Edmure is a Lannister puppet. We can’t trust his promise to ally himself to us, but if he swear fealty to the crown—”

“Is this what you’ve been planning all along?” the younger Stark sister interrupted as she also stood from her chair. “Slowly becoming the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, as you dreamed back when _ you _ were a Lannister puppet?”

“I am not the stupid little girl I was back then,” Sansa immediately objected, hiding the hurt she felt at her sister’s accusation. “I would’ve been happy to just live the rest of my days in Winterfell, with no title to my name, but circumstances have forced me to adapt.”

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Arya drawled.

“The dead are coming for us!” Sansa nearly shouted at her sister. “I’ve already made the mistake of letting Jon ask for help from an Essosi queen who thinks that Westeros is hers by birthright. I should’ve ordered him to stay home, and he’d be here with us, telling you that _ I’m right _ to get more men however I can. The army we have is not enough against the hundred of thousands that the Night King is bringing to us!”

“You don’t have to become queen of our _ dead mother’s _ homeland to get more men!” Arya argued. “You just want to seize power at the first opportunity that presents itself, same as Cersei.”

A few moons ago, Sansa might have slapped her sister for insulting her so. Since then, she’d learned that her baby sister was a trained assassin, that her baby brother was a greenseer, that Jon had died and come back from the dead, and that all of them were skinchangers. 

A slap would be such an insignificant gesture in the grand scheme of everything, and truly a waste of her energy.

“Then tell me, how would _ you _ insure the loyalty of the entire Riverlands?” she questioned her sister. “How would _ you _ make sure that their army brings food and warm clothing as it marches North, and how would _ you _ reassure our bannermen that you’re not letting _ Lannister puppets _ into their backyards?”

She felt vindicated at the prolonged silence that answered her question.

“You’re a fighter, Arya,” Sansa told her sister as softly as her frustration allowed. “So is Jon. I admire and respect your skills, but I know for a fact that they’re _ insufficient _ to survive the game of thrones. When you play this game, the main danger is not enemy swords facing you in the battlefield, no. The main danger is the unexpected dagger or poison that sneaks up on you when you least expect it, because traitors are _ everywhere, _usually closer to you than you think.”

Arya tried to speak, probably to point out that she had killed all the Freys single-handedly, but Sansa cut her off with a raised hand.

They couldn’t afford to assassinate anyone who could be one additional valuable swordsman or swordswoman against the Night King. Walder Frey’s sons could have been a dozen more swords to the army of the living.

“_Traitors_ killed Father,” the queen reminded her sister. “_Traitors_ killed Robb. We lost Winterfell because Theon _betrayed_ us and he lost Winterfell because his own men _betrayed_ him. Jon was killed by his _traitor_ brothers at Castle Black.”

So many traitors and so many wars. In the end, the Night King would kill them all if they didn’t unite under one cohesive force.

Only now was Sansa understanding the urgency she knew dictated every one of Jon’s clumsy decisions.

Jon could lead the army once she’d gathered one that would stand a chance against the army of the dead. _ Together_, with Bran and Arya, they could win the war. Sansa was certain of it.

“Father, Robb, Theon, Jon…They’re all great fighters, yet they all lost the game, at great costs” she stated evenly. “I’m still alive after living among traitors for _ years_: at King’s Landing, at the Eyrie and within these very walls in our home. _ I’ve _survived traitors' schemes whereas great fighters have fallen because I’ve learned, through my many mistakes, how traitors think. I _ know _ what they want, and that makes me more equipped than you or Jon to deal with them _ without _ spilling unnecessary blood.”

When Arya finally looked convinced, Sansa felt safe to give her a direct response to her words.

“Yes, I _ have _ to become the queen of the Riverlands to get more men, but that is not the only reason why I want Uncle Edmure to bend the knee. The Riverlands _ are _ our dead mother’s homelands, and I will not let _ Cersei _ rule over them. I am done being a bystander and waiting for the gods to grant my family justice. The gods didn’t give us back Winterfell. Jon and I took it back. And I want _ you _ to help me take Riverrun and honor our mother and great-uncle, who lost their lives fighting the Lannisters.”

Arya stared at her with an unreadable expression, and for once Sansa didn’t let her queen’s mask hide her emotions. She bared her skin and let her sister judge whether or not she was worthy of her trust.

“How’s the queen’s retinue going to travel to Riverrun and back within a fortnight?” the assassin interrogated.

“I won’t travel with a full retinue,” Sansa answered as she took back her seat, using the movement to hide her sigh of relief. “I’ll take Brienne, you, a Mormont soldier, a Free Folk, and a knight of the Vale. We’ll travel on horseback rather than by carriage. That will give us plenty of time to return before Jon does.”

“Take Ghost with you,” Bran advised with the conviction he often had, as if he’d seen something in his visions that justified his decision.

“Alright, but Nymeria will stay with you,” Sansa declared as she held her brother’s gaze. “You’ll be the Stark in Winterfell, Bran. Can I count on you not to get killed?”

“I would see traitors coming from leagues away,” her baby brother actually joked, forcing a laugh out of Sansa.

“Meera Reed protected him from wights and White Walkers beyond the Wall,” Arya pointed out. “I trust her. She’s a good fighter.”

“I trust her too,” Sansa admitted with a knowing smile at Bran. “And I’m wondering if I should sit with her father to ensure that she doesn’t get married away to some lesser lord in the Neck.”

Bran’s cheeks flamed up, to Arya’s disbelief.

“You and Meera?” the assassin said breathlessly. “I don’t know if I should be proud of you or disappointed in her.”

“Arya!” Sansa scolded.

“Meera’s a Northern warrior woman,” the younger Stark sister pointed out. “Like Maege Mormont, who was the head of House Mormont. Like Maege' daughter Lyanna Mormont is training to be. Why should Meera, who could become a leader of her own merit, become Lady Stark? The title is obsolete now, with you as Queen Stark and me as Princess Stark.”

Sansa saw her younger sister’s point, but unlike Arya who cared more about Meera’s social status, the eldest surviving Stark cared about her baby brother being taken care of, as well as securing more heirs with Stark blood.

Sansa had no plans of having children, and she suspected that neither did Arya. If Jon fell in battle during the Great War, House Stark’s lineage wouldn’t die off with him if Bran and Meera survived.

“Meera’s the future Lady Reed,” Bran told his sisters. “Her father has already decided.”

Oh. Poor Bran. Could Sansa still change Lord Howland’s mind? She was his queen, after all.

“That would make me Lord Reed, rather than her becoming Lady Stark,” the youngest Stark added shyly.

“What?” Sansa and Arya reacted at the same time.

Bran wrung his hands, looking sheepishly at Sansa from under his lashes.

The queen’s heart melted at how young and innocent her baby brother looked just then. As if he hadn’t seen the worst of humanity, as if he hadn’t faced death countless times in the years he’d been gone from home.

She was disappointed that he hadn’t asked her opinion about marrying his friend, but she couldn’t be angry at him. Instead, she was happy that he’d found happiness in the middle of the dark paths he’d treaded—well, the dark paths Meera had pulled him across, she supposed.

“Have you told Lord Reed?” the queen asked, smiling widely to let her brother know that she wasn’t against the union.

“Not yet,” Bran confessed quietly. “I know I’m supposed to make a formal proposal…”

“I’ll take care of that,” Sansa promised him. “But Bran, if you father more than one child…”

“They’ll take the Stark name,” her brother finished her sentence with a solemn nod. “I know. But I’m not the only one here who can rebuild House Stark.”

“I’m not having children,” Arya announced as expected. “If Sansa can shun her duty to provide heirs, so can I.”

“You know why I can’t have children!” the queen defended herself.

“Actually, no, I don’t know why you _ won’t _ have children,” her sister countered. “You’re young, and maybe you’re still suffering from that bastard’s torture, but you’ll heal. Mother had five healthy children, both her and father had multiple siblings who all made it to adulthood. Either of us could have a litter of direwolves pups, easily.”

“I can’t trust any man with my…body,” Sansa managed to share her fear, at first unwilling to discuss such a subject in front of Bran but remembering that he’d likely seen and heard it all in his visions. “Not after what I’ve been through. And if you don’t want children either, that’s fine. There’s Jon, and now Bran. The pack will survive.”

She would make sure of that.

“I need to talk to Brienne, and break the news of my departure to the Council,” the queen announced as she stood again. “_And_ arrange a formal meeting with Lord Reed for when I return if he’s not available this morning,” she added for Bran’s benefit.

“He’s free right now,” the Three-Eyed-Raven informed her eagerly.

“How’d you know?” Arya questioned. “You didn’t use greensight or change skin.”

“Meera told me before you came,” the youngest of the three Starks answered with a blush.

Sansa hid her chuckle behind her hand, unsure if she was more amused by her brother’s adorable behavior or by her sister’s shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Dragonstone next chapter, because I'm not writing Sansa traveling on the kingsroad. Littlefinger's POV isn't any easier to write the second time around *sigh*
> 
> Please leave a comment so I know whether or not I'm screwing this monumentally. I can't become a better writer overnight, obviously, but I can do some damage control.


	11. A Northern Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon seeks Lord Baelish's advice on how to convince Daenerys Targaryen to join their fight against the Night King.  
He clearly forgot Sansa's warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit that I struggled with these two chapters (yes, two chapters at once) and still am not fully satisfied with them, but I no longer have the luxury of spending hours on end editing my story. I'll edit them further when I re-read them before posting chapter 13.  
I hope that you'll enjoy them regardless of the grammatical errors.

Jon reflected, for the third time in so many days, that coming to Dragonstone had been a good idea. He missed Winterfell, he missed his family, he missed _ Sansa _, but his efforts were finally rewarded.

He and his men had mined enough dragonglass to arm twice as many people as Sansa commanded. After a sennight of negotiations, Queen Daenerys had allowed him that much, as well as a ship to send the dragonglass to winterfell.

If Jon could convince the Dragon Queen to also send a thousand of her Unsullied North along with her dragons, Jon would sleep peacefully at night.

As he savored the unfamiliar yet delicious spices in his soup, the false bastard reflected once again on how different the white-haired queen was from Sansa.

_ I have been sold like a broodmare. I have been chained and betrayed, raped and defiled. Do you know what kept me standing through all those years in exile? Faith. Not in any gods. Not in myths and legends. In myself. _

Sansa’s life hadn't been very different from the Dragon Queen: she'd lived in the midst of traitors for years in King's Landing, victims of Joffrey's torture. She'd been married off to Tyrion Lannister then to Ramsay, and the latter had physically and mentally abused her; she was betrayed by many of her father's vassals who had refused to fight for her when she needed them. 

Jon did not know what kept his half-sister—_ cousin _—standing all these years in King's Landing, but he knew that Sansa was not arrogant enough to claim that her own strength had been enough to reclaim her home. 

There was no way that Daenerys Targaryen had amassed her impressive army all alone. Her dragons were not always this large for her to just take what she wanted during those years she spent in Essos. She had most definitely had help getting where she was now, yet she attributed all her success to _ herself _.

She presently had powerful allies, people from Westeros who preferred her to Cersei Lannister: Ellaria Sand from Dorne, Olenna Tyrell from The Reach, and Yara Greyjoy from the Iron Islands—another queen, and clearly Daenerys did not appear to mind the independence of the Ironborn.

From what Lord Baelish had reported to Jon, however, Daenerys Targaryen’s war efforts weren’t proving successful so far. And to Jon’s shock, the Dragon Queen had invited him to her war room after supper.

Though he knew that Lord Tyrion, Lady Olenna Tyrell, and Lord Varys would be present at the meeting, Jon did not quite know what to expect from Queen Daenerys.

Which was why the crown prince of Winterfell begrudgingly sought the counsel of Lord Baelish, to whom the invitation hadn’t been extended, surprisingly.

“Remind her that the true war is North,” Sansa’s Hand told him. “And if she demands a guarantee that the North and the Vale will remain her allies even after defeating the Night King, tell her that you can offer her better than some empty words.”

“My words, _ Sansa’s _ words aren’t empty,” Jon chided the southerner. “As soon as the army is rested from fighting the army of the dead, we will support Queen Daenerys’ campaign against the Lannisters. She shouldn’t doubt us.”

“We’ve been here a whole week, and Daenerys Targaryen doesn’t strike me as very trusting of those who don't kotow to her,” Lord Baelish imparted. “We must give her something that will somehow appease her for the loss of two kingdoms and help us earn her trust at the same time, without jeopardizing Queen Sansa’s reign. Well, _ you _ must give her that guarantee.”

“Which is?” Jon asked, uneasy about the tone the Mockingbird was using.

“A marriage proposal,” Littlefinger answered firmly. “Tell Daenerys Targaryen that you will marry her and give her heirs to strengthen her rule.”

“I am _ Sansa’s _ heir!” Jon reminded Baelish, shocked and appalled by the idea. “How could I marry the woman who wants to rule over us all?”

Moreover, Daenerys was his _ aunt _, though the Southerner in front of him didn’t know that. 

Jon knew that many great houses, including the Starks, had allowed marriages between uncles and nieces in the past to ensure the survival of the family. It was nothing as scandalous as the traditional incestuous marriages among Targaryens, but Jon was still mildly put off by the idea of seeing his father's sister in a romantic light. 

“The Dragon Queen won’t rule over the North and the Vale even if you marry her,” the older man argued. “But her _ children _ will have ties to the North through you, and thus will root her to Westeros. Furthermore, your marriage will bind your sister by honor _ and _ family to support Daenerys’ campaign against Cersei Lannister. That is more commitment than Yara Greyjoy, Ellaria Sand or Olenna Tyrell can offer the Dragon Queen. These three women have only their best interest at heart in the conflict against Cersei. If the tide was ever to change in the Lannisters’ favor, they wouldn’t hesitate to abandon the last Targaryen. _ You _ would never do that. You’re an honorable Northerner, and you would be bound to Daenerys Targaryen by your promise to marry her.”

“So you don’t just want me to ask for the Dragon Queen’s hand, you want me to _ insult _ her allies too?” Jon asked, incredulous.

“Daenerys Targaryen has wise advisors,” Baelish claimed. “Tyrion Lannister and Varys, two men I know very well. They will see the wisdom to this marriage proposal. The Targaryens conquered Westeros with dragons, yes, but they _ solidified _ their rules through alliances. And nothing can seal an alliance better than the sacred union that is marriage.”

“_ I _ don’t see any wisdom to this plan,” Jon objected. “It is madness! There is no way that the Dragon Queen will accept to marry me, let alone allow me to remain on Dragonstone after such an offense.”

“What offense?” the Mockingbird ask. “You’re a fetching young man and one of the best swords of Westeros. If all goes well and you survive the war, you will be a hero, the savior of all of humanity for facing the Night King, not once but _ twice _. Did you not see how interested the Dragon Queen was in your title ‘Savior of the Free Folk’? I did not make such an exhaustive list of titles for the sake of decorum. Daenerys Targaryen is a legend, she will accept no one short of being another legend as a partner, as the husband she will choose to rebuild her family’s dynasty. Who in all of Westeros has a better claim than you to that role, tell me?”

_ If you only knew. _

“I’m a bastard,” the crown prince of Winterfell reminded the Lord Protector of the Vale.

“If that bothers Queen Danerys, she has the power to legitimize you.” Baelish pointed out easily.

“You make it sound simple, but to me this sounds like a convoluted scheme, and I’m certain that Queen Daenerys will think that it is too.”

“As I implied a moment ago, you’re not to convince the Dragon Queen herself but her trusted advisors,” Lord Baelish insisted. “You see, you and Daenerys Targaryen are focused on the _ immediate _ future. You have that in common. Queen Sansa, Tyrion, Varys and myself…We are focused on the _ distant _ future. On what comes _ after _ the war. With our own eyes we have seen kings come and go, dynasties rise and fall. We know what it takes to make legacies last.”

_ You are all players of the game of thrones _, Jon thought sourly.

“I’m supposed to help build _ Sansa’s _ legacy,” he pointed out. “She named me her heir, and until she herself take that title away, I will not betray her trust.”

“You _ volunteered _ to come here to enlist the help of the Dragon Queen because you believe that her dragons will allow us to win against the army of the dead,” Baelish countered. “And Sansa sent _ me _ to help you in that endeavor. If the marriage proposal displeases her, I will make her see the wisdom in it. I doubt that I will need to, for by the time we return to Winterfell the threat of the Night King will be palpable, will it not? This proposal might sound convoluted to you, but it is a better alternative to more conflict once the war against the army of the dead is over. Moreover, what better than a marriage, the promise of children, of _ birth _, to celebrate our victory after defeating death itself?”

Jon stared at Sansa’s Hand warily, though he had to admit that part of his reasoning was sound. Still, Jon had no intention of saying it out loud.

“Thank you for your counsel, Lord Baelish,” he forced himself to say. “I must depart now or I’ll be late to see Queen Daenerys.”

“Don't just thank me for it, _ follow _ it, bastard,” the older man’s words stopped Jon before he could open the door.

“I do not care for you, Jon Snow,” the Hand confessed, his volume controlled as he spoke behind his teeth, “but I care about _ Sansa _ . She named me her Hand and I don’t plan on making her regret that decision. More than anything, I care about my _ life _ . I don’t want to die by the hands of some nightmarish magical creature. I want to die of the most natural death: old age. You’re the one who’s faced this Night King in the past. Don’t you want to survive this terrible foe, too? You _ know _ what the odds of our victory without dragons are.”

Jon stared at the southerner, surprised but not angered to hear him speak with sincerity for once.

“Appeal to Daenerys Targaryen’s good heart again, if you must,” the older man advised. “I doubt that she would react favorably to you begging for help again. She is too focused on the Iron Throne, on ruling Westeros, to offer it for free. This marriage proposal will not offend her, I guarantee you. Quite the opposite: it will give her an idea of what her future in Westeros might look like. It won’t include all the seven kingdoms she covets, but it will give her a concrete shape to her dream of living in the land it took her so long to return to. _ Feed _ her that dream. You might not even have to make it come true, who knows if you or she will survive the war. But feed her that dream, Jon Snow, for some of us _ must _ survive for humanity to perdure in Westeros. The fate of the world is definitely worth more than your place at Sansa’s side.”

_ Is it? _ Jon wondered as he stared at the southerner for a few heartbeats, nodding curtly before heading to the war room.

He was stopped at the door by two Unsullied, but then warmly invited to enter by Lord Tyrion. 

The northerner gave a general nod in greeting to Lady Tyrell and the Eunuch. The last one wordlessly stared at him instead of returning his nod, but Jon did not pay him further attention. Instead, he appraised the war room as he took his seat.

Unlike the rest of the castle, it seemed to be bare of luxurious tapestry on purpose, for it needed none to impress.

Rather than windows, the room had two rows of arches opening to the outside, which must give a breathtaking view of the beach during the day. The side of a crouching dragon looking backward was carved, nay _ sculpted _, into the far right wall.

Two massive chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their many candles providing enough lighting to see the details on the slab that served doubly as a table and a map.

Jon had never left the North by land, and though he remembered learning that it was the largest kingdom of Westeros during his lessons as a boy, he was shocked by the visualization of how much land was now under Stark rule: the North and the Vale were sizable regions of the Seven Kingdoms.

If Sansa ever annexed the Riverlands to her kingdom, she would control over half of the continent. Jon would have to dissuade her from that plan as soon as he got back to Winterfell. Such a move would certainly trigger a war against Daenerys.

“My ancestor Aegon the Conqueror planned his wars to take over Westeros in this very room, using this very table,” the Dragon Queen said as she walked into the room from the side door, for once appearing without her translator.

Everyone except Lady Olenna stood to greet her, and the white-haired queen invited all to sit back down with a hand gesture, but herself remained standing at the head of the table. 

“He didn’t have the leaders of Dorne, the Reach and the Iron Islands as his allies then,” she added, her voice going low with displeasure, “yet he won every single battle. And here I am, losing all of mine when I have _ the lots of you _ to advise me on how to reclaim my birthright.”

She was _ losing _ her battles? How? And how many men had she lost?

As if she’d heard the questions in his head, Daenerys Targaryen turned her gaze to Jon.

“Half of Yara Greyjoy’s Fleet has been lost to her uncle Euron,” she informed me. “And the greater number of my Unsullied sits idle in Casterly Rock because they are now lacking the ships to return to Dragonstone. The bulk of the Lannister army is actually in the Reach, stealing the grain that was supposed to feed _ my _ people for the winter.”

“I’m sorry to hear of your troubles, Your Grace,” Jon spoke after a moment of tense silence. “Waging a war on several fronts is not easy.”

“No it’s not,” Lady Olenna acknowledged. “But one thing is certain, Queen Daenerys,” she added as she stared at Daenerys. “The lords of Westeros are sheep. Are you a sheep? No, you’re a dragon. _ Be _ a dragon.”

The young queen frowned at the elderly lady, but remained silent and raised her hand to quiet Lord Tyrion who tried to argue.

“You accurately pointed out that your ancestor conquered Westeros quite easily,” Lady Tyrell confirmed. “But he did so by burning to crisps the first armies that opposed him. Those who heard of his absolute victories were wise enough to bend the knee because they did not want their kingdoms reduced to ashes. If you used your great beasts for but one battle, the war would be won much more swiftly.”

“I did not come to Westeros to be the queen of ashes,” the young ruler objected. "I'm here to liberate the people of Westeros from Cersei Lannister's tyranny, from the wheel of oppression that has been crushing them since the usurper's Rebellion against my family."

“And if the queen uses fire as her weapon, she will be associated to her father the Mad King,” Lord Tyrion supplied.

“Cersei Lannister killed my entire family by burning them with wildfire,” Lady Tyrell told the room, "and no one calls her the Mad Queen."

Jon was shocked by the news he'd just heard. Wasn’t Margaery Tyrell a friend to Sansa? His cousin had often mentioned her name while recalling the few good memories she had of King’s Landing.

The Queen in the North would be devastated by the news of the young Lady Tyrell's death. 

“I’ve been told that you have won several battles despite staggering odds against you, my Lord,” Daenerys suddenly addressed Jon again, leaving her side of the table in front of Dorne to walk closer to him, who stood from his chair at the Fingers. 

“I would hear any counsel you’d have for me. After all, you came here to form an alliance with me, did you not?” she asked condescendingly when she stopped a few feet from him.

“An alliance between you and my sister _ Queen _ Sansa, Your Grace” he corrected her, “to whom I am the _ heir _ , so you may refer to me as ‘Prince Jon’ or as ‘Your Grace’… _ Your Grace _.”

“I like this one,” Lady Olenna commented with a wide wrinkly smile and an appraising look that the northerner found uncomfortable. “It doesn’t hurt that he is the prettiest, if the most brooding bastard I have ever met in my long life.”

“Do you have any counsel to offer, Prince Jon?” Daenerys Targaryen carefully rephrased her question.

“I do, Queen Daenerys,” he answered as he extended his arm to point at the Wall on the carved map. “Forget the Lannisters, there are of no consequence next to the real enemy, who comes from the North. Redirect your army North, Your Grace, to fight with us against the Night King. The fate of all Westeros is at stake. As soon as we defeat him, I myself will lead one of your battles against Cersei Lannister in the South.”

"What guarantee do I have that you will march South to help me win the Iron Throne?" the white-haired queen questioned. "After all, you have declared yourself independent of my rule. You owe me no true loyalty, _ Your Grace _ . Your spoken words are just pretty noises, an empty promise like others that were made to me as I carved my way to power in Essos with _ fire and blood _. I will not be duped again, not when I'm so close to my goal.”

Jon refrained from sighing in frustration.

Littlefinger had been right. There was no way forward without paying a price for her assistance in the Great War.

“What if I were to call you my queen, then?” he suggested, startled by the way Daenerys’ face instantly lit up at his words.

She took a deliberate step towards him, a smile threatening to stretch her half agape mouth.

“You would bend the knee, then?” She asked enthusiastically. “You would swear your fealty to my crown, and convince your half-sister to do the same? I swear that I will fight for you, that my_ dragons _ will burn the Night King and his army of the dead. I will exterminate _ anything and anyone _ who dares threaten _ my _ people.”

The poignancy of the Dragon Queen’s words stirred something in Jon.

Unlike Sansa's words, which appealed to his morals, Daenerys' words called to something more primal in him, something akin to the thrill he experienced in the heart of a battle.

Something akin to the lust he felt for the woman to whom he had been raised as a brother.

“The North is to remain independent and under my sister’s rule,” Jon slowly replied the Targaryen woman, whose eyes darkened just as swiftly as they had brightened up.

“But if…If we were to marry, you and I,” Jon forced himself to propose, “to seal an alliance between your crown and Queen Sansa’s…Then your children, the _ future _ of your House,” he emphasized as he looked towards Lords Tyrion and Varys, who looked rather shocked by his words.

“will have blood ties to the North," he kept going. "My promise isn’t empty, just as this request for an alliance is not made lightly, Queen Daenerys. I am willing to commit the rest of my life to serve you, to assist you in your rule, and to help you rebuild your House.”

_ Our House _, he thought vaguely, ignoring the images of long fiery hair, of a skinny sword and of a rolling chair that flashed in his mind.

Daenerys took a few steps back and shouted some incomprehensible words…Speaking in Valyrian, most likely.

The heavy doors of the rooms opened on the two Unsullied guards, and with a wave of the white-haired queen's hand they grabbed Jon by the arms.

"What is the meaning of this?" He questioned, his eyes wide on his long-lost aunt. "Your Grace!"

"My queen, you shouldn't make hasty decisions," Jon heard Lord Tyrion advise, but Daenerys Targaryen only had eyes for him.

"My _ future _ is to sit on the Iron Throne," she declared with a sneer. "And my dragons are the only children I will _ ever _ have."

What? That did not make sense, how could dragons…

Oh. She was _ barren _.

"I deeply apologize for any offense I've made in my ignorance, Queen Daenerys," he quickly said. "I meant no disrespect…"

"No, you only meant to _ usurp _ my rule, to be the next king sitting on the Iron Throne yourself once you saved Westeros from the Night King," she accused him coldly.

What was she talking about? Did she know about their kinship? How had she learned his secret?

"I have no wish to usurp your throne, aunt!" He promised. "Even though I am Prince Rhaegar's only surviving son, I make no claim to the crown. My wish has ever been to remain in Winterfell and protect the family I grew up with, the Starks!"

His words stirred the whole war room, but the tight grip of the two eunuch soldiers prevented him to turn around and see what was happening around him.

"What did he just say?" Lord Tyrion asked, panic clear in his voice.

"He just implied that he is the secret, possibly legitimate son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen," Lord Varys answered calmly, though there was an edge to his voice.

Had he not known already? How would Daenerys know if not through him, whom Sansa had claimed to be a resourceful spy?

"Is this what you are implying, Prince Jon?" The Dragon Queen herself questioned him, clearly unaware of his true identity until now. 

She was now staring at him with keen interest rather than fury, however, and Jon latched onto the hope that a marriage proposal would be exactly the solution to all their problems.

Why should he remain by Sansa’s side when his lust for her posed a danger he could not protect her from? It would be better for him to find peace with his true family, the missing piece of his identity he had never hoped to know when he’d left for the Wall as a boy.

House Stark had Bran and Arya, and even Sansa herself might heal from her abuse by Ramsay and take a northern lord as husband and father of her children.

But what had House Targaryen left? It was just Daenerys and him, who didn’t even have the guarantee of surviving the Great War. Lady Melisandre had said they would both be pivotal in the fight against the Night King, but she had said nothing about their survival.

"Aye, I am your brother's son, Your Grace" he admitted with a solemn nod, his eyes locked on hers. "Born of Lyanna Stark, whom Rhaegar married in secret under the faith of the Seven, their marriage ceremony presided by the High Septon Maynard."

"He couldn't possibly be making this up," Jon heard the Imp argue. "That is more creativity than any northerner could claim to have, even Lord Stark who clearly fooled us all by claiming that Jon Snow was his bastard son."

"My birth name is Jaehaerys Targaryen," the prince informed his audience. "Named after Jaehaerys I, the Conciliator, fourth king to sit on the Iron Throne."

"The North cannot possibly hold records of the Targaryen family tree," Lady Olenna was the one to speak this time. "I myself had no idea who the fourth king of the Seven Kingdoms was. Did you?"

"He was indeed Jaehaerys Targaryen, first of his name," Lord Varys replied.

"Known as the Conciliator, the Wise and the Old King, for he was and still is the longest reigning Targaryen monarch," Lord Tyrion added. "I only learned that when I was Hand to Joffrey and had access to the annals of the ruling houses of Westeros at the Red Keep. Nowhere else except the Citadel would there be any records of such a rarely spoken Targaryen King."

Jon didn't dare say anything as his aunt appraised him. 

A heavy silence took over the room, intermittently interrupted by the distant sound of waves crashing against rocks.

"If you are indeed a Targaryen," she said slowly as she lifted her chin, "then my children should acknowledge you as their kin, too."

"Your Grace," Jon pleaded immediately as he started struggling against the Unsullied, closing his healed hand in a fist at the idea of getting close to beasts who could breathe _ fire_.

"They did not harm Lord Tyrion because he is a true friend,” his aunt informed him. “So surely, if you truly have come as an ally and are of the blood of Old Valyria, my children would disobey my command to _burn you_,” she predicted then gave orders to her guards in Valyrian again before exiting the war room.

Jon didn't know what she had told his captors, but as he vainly struggled against them, he remembered Sansa warning him that his secret would endanger his life.

And as he was dragged along corridors, the northerner saw Lord Baelish standing in a corner, looking unbothered by the sight of his queen's heir being manhandled. Unless fear was playing tricks on Jon's mind, Littlefinger was actually _ smiling_.

The words that Sansa had shared with him, on that day when she informed him that winter had come, resonated in Jon's head:

_ "Only a fool would trust Littlefinger." _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to read chapter 12! Comments always make me happy.


	12. A Traitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Littlefinger realizes that he did not quite anticipate every case scenario when he decided to get rid of Jon Snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not know how to format that flashback in italics interspersed with Littlefinger's hindsight on it, so if someone knows a way to make it less awkward, I'm very open to constructive criticism.  
Hope you enjoy the chapter!

Petyr heard Varys and Tyrion Lannister ask their queen for mercy regarding Jon Snow as they trailed after her in the castle. Daenerys Targaryen went outside through a door different from the one the Unsullied took as they led the bastard to the beach.

The Mockingbird confidently entered the war room, and took the time to admire its grandeur before stepping to the narrow landing by the magnificent arches that gave a bird view to the sea below. 

For almost ten minutes, the Hand savored the calm and repetitive sound of waves, aware but unbothered by the presence of Lady Olenna, whom he had decided to ignore for now.

Then _ chaos _, music to his ears, resonated in the night. 

Ser Davos was shouting at the Red Priestess who seemed eager to witness the execution, but from this far Petyr couldn't make any words said. 

Daryn Hornwood*, his bastard brother and the three Manderly soldiers where vainly trying to go past the Dothraki soldiers to aid their prince—they could do nothing without their weapons, confiscated on the first day of their visit.

Jon Snow was brought to his knees by the two Unsullied who had seized him just as a dragon landed a dozen paces from him, making the ground shake and sand fly off like rain. The beast was much larger than the one Baelish had seen from up close on the day of their arrival to Dragonstone.

"What exactly has this boy done to you, to deserve such a gruesome death?" Olenna Tyrell asked him as she finally left her seat to join him outside. 

"It's not about what he's done to me, it's about what he _could do_ to Sansa Stark," he corrected her. "I made the mistake to entrust Sansa's safety to a different Snow just after rescuing her from the abusive hands of Joffrey. The dear girl seems fated to suffer abuse from bastards. I'm merely doing my duty as a Hand to remove the weed from Queen Sansa’s gardens, lest it competes with my beautiful rose for its soil."

"Sansa Stark is a winter rose," the elderly woman pointed out. "She can only stand beautiful and proud today because of the harsh conditions she endured as a seed then as a bud. The heat and horseshit of King's Landing did her good in the end. Take the advice of an old hag who's lived in the most beautiful rose garden of Westeros, Lord Baelish: stop trying to pluck the rose or you will know the unpleasant pain of her thorns."

"This winter rose, as you call her, is no wild flower to still carry thorns," Petyr countered. "She's a queen now, a refined flower with her sharp edges carefully clipped away, the most beautiful sight in the famed glass gardens of Winterfell. I do recommend that you consider trading with the North, Lady Tyrell, now that the Lannisters have seized your food reserves. When winter is fully upon us and grain becomes scarce in the South, even Dorne will suffer from food shortage. Meanwhile, Winterfell will keep its people well fed with the crops they recently planted. After all, many of Sansa’s subjects will die in the war against the army of the dead. There will be enough food for faithful allies." 

The two southerners watched as Jon Snow shouted something to Daenerys Targaryen. Again, the Mockingbird couldn't hear what was being said, but it was clear that the white-haired queen was not swayed by whatever plea the northerner had uttered.

Petyr gasped as he saw the black dragon's huge head recoil before spitting fire at the bastard. To the Hand's disappointment, Snow did not scream as flames engulfed his body.

"I must inform my queen of the regrettable news," Petyr told the queen of thorns as he turned around and walked away from the horrifying sight of a man being burned alive. He had no wish to stay long enough to catch whiffs of burned flesh.

As he returned to his chambers, Baelish reassured himself that he had made the right choice to eliminate Jon Snow.

A grieving Sansa would be easy to manipulate: she would heed his advice to bend the knee and to let her brother Brandon become Warden of the North, while she would be grateful for his plan to avenge her beloved brother.

Once he told her of his plan, Petyr knew that Sansa would accept to renew her marriage with Tyrion Lannister, and to return to King's Landing once the wars against the Night King and Cersei was won. 

And after Petyr himself had secretly gathered the support needed to overturn the Dragon Queen, he would give Sansa the signal to poison the Imp, who by then would be perceived as the most powerful man in Westeros. After Daenerys Targaryen's assassination, that would leave Lady Sansa the most powerful woman in Westeros, the logical choice as queen, for she would be the only noble alive with direct ties to several great houses.

And when she would begrudgingly reward Petyr for his faithful service by taking him as her husband, he would _ finally _ sit on the Iron Throne.

But that would be in the distant future. For now, Petyr had to convince the Dragon Queen to fly North with her _ children _ and burn down the army of the dead.

It stood to reason that the Breaker of Chains would be glad to be seen as the savior of all Westeros, a title she wouldn't have to share with Jon Snow anymore.

It had been quite easy to turn the white-haired queen against the bastard, despite her clear interest in him. It had helped to have Tyrion Lannister and Varys present when Petyr had found audience with Daenerys Targaryen while Jon Snow was mining dragonglass.

All he'd had to do was tell the contestant to the Iron Throne that Jon Snow was an ambitious bastard, just like Ramsay Bolton, only with much greater thirst for power.

* * *

_“You claim that Sansa Stark's bastard brother was the one who gave her the ambition to crown herself queen?” Varys cut him off before the Dragon Queen could. _

Thank the gods that the eunuch had been there. The implication that Jon Snow influenced Sansa’s decision had been too subtle for the other two to catch.

_ “Ah, yes, Sansa’s bastard brother, Jon Snow,” Baelish said, relieved to finally spit venom to the name he despised. “He would be the split image of his departed father if not for his dreams of power and glory.” _

_ “We’re talking about the same man who risked his life to save strangers, enemies, from beyond the Wall?” it was Daenerys Targaryen of all people who seemed to defend the Northern fool. _

Baelish had internally smiled at the young woman facing him.

A legendary queen she might be, but he had accurately guessed that she was also a lonely young woman, what with the appreciative gaze she had given to Sansa’s bastard brother. Her fancy for Jon Snow had been predictable.

_ “The same man who refused the crown of the North because he believed that it belonged to his trueborn sister,” Petyr fed her more reason to get attached to the brooding Northerner. “He’s a man of honor you see. Well, as honorable as a bastard could be coveting the Iron Throne,” he added with a huff of indignation. _

_ “He wouldn’t!” Lord Tyrion argued immediately as he saw his queen’s face fall. “I know the lad, he’s always known his place! He voluntarily went to the Wall to stop Lady Catelyn from worrying over him usurping her trueborn children!” _

_ “He wouldn’t be usurping any Stark by coveting the Iron Throne,” Varys pointed out calmly. “How he plans on taking down Cersei Lannister is anyone’s guess.” _

_ “Why, by a marriage with Daenerys Targaryen, evidently,” Baelish lied easily. “That is the reason for his visit.” _

_ “Three days ago you claimed to come asking for aid to defeat the Night King!” the Dragon Queen shouted. “Jon Snow claimed that no one would be ruling any kingdom if that monster beyond the Wall attacked us all! And Melisandre…Did the Red Priestess lie to me too?” _

_ “Your Grace, I wouldn’t take anything Lord Baelish says as irrefutable truth,” Varys tried to appease her. “He’s fond of pitching people against one other so he won’t have to dirty his own hands to get them out of his way to power.” _

Good old Varys. Petyr had missed playing against him.

_ “I do not wish to pitch anyone against anyone,” he claimed as he took a clumsy step towards the beautiful queen (not as beautiful as Sansa, in his opinion, but maybe if her hair was the color of blood…) whose glare very much stopped him in his tracks. _

_ “I only wish to remove Jon Snow from my beloved's side,” he confessed, almost forgetting to sound drunk. “ _ He _ pitched me against Sansa, was eager to have my head in the advent that I refused to give away the Vale to the crown of the North… A crown Snow gave his trueborn sister, pretending to be too honorable to take her birthright, when truly he just saw a better opportunity to rise to power when Lord Tyrion announced the return of Daenerys Targaryen to Westeros with his letter.” _

_ “And while it is true that the lad plans on saving the world from the terrors beyond the Wall,” the Hand to the northern queen amended, “he also plans on being rewarded for his efforts. I’m loath to admit that the bastard is like me in that he believes in meritocracy. To him, only those willing to fight for the people should rule them, and since he’s willing to die to save the entire continent, he thinks that he should be the one sitting on the Iron Throne,” _the Mockingbird had closed his tirade with a hint of compliment to Snow, to keep the Dragon Queen conflicted about him.

_ “The picture you’ve just painted of Jon Snow is very different from the one we’ve seen with our own eyes,” Tyrion carefully argued, his gaze going back and forth between Petyr and his queen. “Defeating the dead seems to be his only drive, as he’s spent all his time here mining the dragonglass that the Red Priestess has confirmed to be potent against the enemy of humankind.” _

_ “He’s taking his sister’s advice to heart,” Baelish lied as he locked gaze with Daenery Targaryen, “that in order to seduce you he has to present himself as humble and hard-working.” _

_ “ _ Now _ you claim that Lady Sansa wants her bastard brother on the Iron Throne?” Varys questioned as he fully turned towards him, hands buried in his sleeves. _

_ “That would be a vast improvement to having my sister on it, as far as Sansa Stark is concerned,” Tyrion was the one replying to the eunuch. _

Oh, it had been almost too easy to manipulate them all. Dealing with the gruff, unmoving convictions of northerners really had made Petyr appreciate anew the swift and paranoid minds of the people living south of the Neck.

_ “These Starks are a bigger problem than _ either _ of you expected,” Daenerys Targaryen pointed out to her advisors, throwing metaphorical daggers at them before redirecting her sharp gaze at the Mockingbird. “But I recognize opportunists when they stand right in front of me, so tell me Lord Baelish, what do you want in exchange for this valuable information?” _

Petyr had made sure to sway lightly as he blinked in surprise at the white-haired woman.

_ “I…If it pleases Your Grace, I have grown wary of the game of thrones,” he told her quietly. “With the dead close to destroying all of humanity I have come to appreciate the simple things of life—” _

_ “What. Do you. Want.” the Essosi queen bit out slowly. _

_ “The hand of Sansa Stark,” he confessed with more emotion than was needed, but he surmised that it was necessary to sway a woman on the subject. “I care deeply for her, have protected her with my life since the death of her father…” _

_ “Sold her to her brother’s murderers,” the Imp countered with a glance at his queen. _

_ “Sansa wanted to go home!” Petyr lied, his wide eyes pleading the Dragon Queen for understanding. “I thought that she would be happy to return to Winterfell, to live with other Northerners, after her miserable experience in the South. Had I known that Ramsay Snow, another Northern bastard with ambitions of power, would abuse her so, I would have raised arms against the Boltons before leaving her to them. I _did_ raise arms against the Boltons as soon as I learned of their mistreatment of my innocent, beautiful—” _

_ “You love her,” the last Targaryen declared knowingly, her soft tone surprising Petyr as much as it did Varys and Lord Tyrion. _

_ “More than I’ve loved anyone in my entire life,” the Mockingbird confessed. “And I beg you forgive her transgressions against you, Your Grace. She is merely following her bastard brother’s lead. All she ever wanted was to be safe, away from Cersei and all her family’s enemies. You can help me keep her safe from Jon Snow’s dangerous ambitions. She naively thinks that he wants the best for her just because he rescued her from Ramsay when I could not, but I know better. Bastards cannot be trusted. _

_ “Neither can a Hand who would betray his queen to satisfy his lust for her,” the Dragon Queen countered. “Once she bends the knee, _ Lady _ Sansa will renew her vows of marriage with Lord Tyrion.” _

The dwarf had nearly spit his wine, and had looked at the white-haired woman with shock.

_ “As long as Sansa Stark remains in Winterfell, my sovereignty over the North will be contested,” Daenerys Targaryen explained. “She shall live in King’s Landing with us, to dissuade her true born brother, the future Warden in the North, from rebelling. As for _ you_, Lord Baelish, you will remain Warden in the East. You should be grateful that I do not throw you to the dungeons along with Jon Snow.” _

_ “Your Grace, for all we know, this high tale of treason is just that, _a tale_,” Varys warned his queen. _

_ “You will know that I tell the truth when Jon Snow himself offers the marriage proposal,” Petyr said. “Invite him to your war room, and ask him for advice on how to turn around your losses against Cersei.” _

_ “How do you know about that?” the white-haired queen asked sharply as she looked between her advisor. “Am I surrounded by traitors?” _

_ “Jon Snow is the only traitor in this castle, Queen Daenerys,” Petyr assured her. “You can ascertain it yourself with your own eyes and your own ears, by questioning that northern fool.”_

* * *

Truly, the Mockingbird should’ve known that only a dragon could rid him of Sansa’s bastard brother, whom he had assimilated to a mountain too high to climb over. 

The greatest challenge to come would be to get rid of the three beasts themselves once they served their purpose against the army of the dead.

As the Hand to the Queen in the North prepared to break his fast the morning after Jon Snow’s demise, the unusual activity in the castle drew him towards the hearing room. Varys appeared from an adjacent corridor and joined him on his search for the Dragon Queen and Lord Tyrion.

"You once corrected me that chaos isn't a pit but a ladder,” the eunuch reminded him. “Last night, I saw with my own eyes that chaos is very much a pit. A _ dragon pit_."

"And I imagine that you fancy your Targaryen queen being the only one capable of emerging from that pit unscathed?” Petyr replied as he peeked from a window and saw a group of female servants carry bundles of fabric as they crossed the yard. They were an eclectic group of women, their appearances suggesting that they hailed from Westeros, Essos and possibly Sothoryos. 

Had the queen made herself a new dress? She had quite the collection, and now the Mockingbird knew how she had adapted her wardrobe from the Essosi style so quickly: she had a veritable legion of seamstresses at her disposal.

“I must admit that until now, the dragon was a piece on my cyvasse board that I did not quite fancy,” Petyr resumed as he and Varys approached the doors to the hearing room, guarded by two Dothraki. “But I learned to use it, fast."

"Yes, I suppose that you're a fast learner, Lord Baelish," the bald man acknowledged as he stopped a few feet away from the savages, as if worried that they could listen in on their conversation.

"Only because once I encounter a novelty, I immediately imagine every possible series of events it could be involved in,” the Mockingbird explained to the Spider. “I am rarely surprised by anything because everything that can happen already has in my mind."

And Petyr could easily see the look of respect the eunuch would give him the day he ascended to the throne. Or maybe Petyr wouldn’t let him live that long, lest he managed to thwart his plans for once. 

"I'd wager that not even you, the ever adapting Mockingbird, could have anticipated what _ this _ dragon would do," Varys argued as he resumed his walk, and bowed to the Essosi warriors.

"Oh, I very much anticipated your queen's needs and desires, her fears and hopes,” Baelish pointed out. “She's an impressive woman, but still _ just _ a woman."

"Who said anything about Daenerys Targaryen?" the Spider asked, his confusion unexpected.

"You mentioned a dragon…" Petyr started, but the eunuch’s speech in Dothraki overpowered his voice, and in a blur of movements, a curved blade stopped a mere inch from the Hand’s throat.

“No,” the Mockingbird whispered as he looked at Varys from the corner of his eyes. The bald man calmly stared back at him, the hint of a smug smile barely detectable.

The Dothraki who wasn’t threatening to cut Baelish’s head opened one of the doors to the hearing room, and the Dragon Queen’s guest obediently followed inside.

The sight that welcomed him almost made him hurt himself on the sharp blade at his neck.

Daenerys Targaryen was standing on the first step leading to her stone throne, facing him, but her attention was focused on a man turning his back to Petyr.

“No,” the Mockingbird repeated, his quick mind swiftly taking in the appearance of the stranger dressed in the style of a Targaryen royal. 

Jet black hair freely fell down shoulders draped in a red-trimmed black vest, powerful arms covered by the sleeves of a black doublet; a red half-cape trailed down to the top of shiny black boots; a sword made of Valyrian steel sat at the left hip of the stranger who was no stranger at all. The pommel of the prestigious blade was shaped after a white direwolf.

For all that he anticipated every possible event in his head, Petyr had never expected that a man could survive the flames of a dragon. He’d left the war room without asserting that Jon Snow had indeed been burned to a crisp from the dragon’s fire.

Only Targaryens were rumored to be immune to fire, and even then it had only been a select few among the people from Old Valyria who could survive the lethal heat. The possibility of the northern bastard surviving his execution had been _nonexistent._

So had Petyr thought, because for all that he had anticipated every future move on his gameboard, the Mockingbird had neglected to fully assess the pieces left from past adversaries. Jon Snow had been one such piece, left from his match against _Ned Stark._

How could have Petyr Baelish believed, like the rest of Westeros, that the most honorable man among them could have betrayed his lady wife and fathered a bastard? Why had he never ascertained the parentage of Sansa’s half-brother?

The Mockingbird couldn’t lie to himself, so he internally answered his own question: he had let his spite for _Catelyn's husband_ blind him from what should have been obvious the moment he had seen Jon Snow stand by his beloved.

Petyr should have seen then what he could see now: the young man was not Eddard Stark’s son, but _ Rhaegar Targaryen’s_.

"Lord Baelish," Daenerys Targaryen spoke with surprising fondness as she directed her gaze to him. "I should thank you for your perfidious actions, for they have reunited me with my long-lost nephew. But I _ do not _ wish to thank you. I've forgiven enough of those who worked for the demise of my House."

"Your Grace," Baelish started, but his mind came short of a way to escape his fate.

He should have known better. After his discussion with Brandon Stark, he should have looked closer into the identity of _ the _ prince. 

It was too late now, at least as far as Daenerys Targaryen was concerned.

"I would let Jaehaerys run his sword through you this very moment, but my nephew insists on carrying out your sentence in front of his cousin, the queen you betrayed by conspiring the demise of her heir."

_ Jaehaerys, _ a proper Targaryen name—the name of a Targaryen _ king_, if Petyr was not mistaken. 

Did that mean that Snow wasn’t a bastard at all? How had Rhaegar Targaryen managed to marry whoever had given birth to Sansa’s brother?

No, not brother. _ Cousin_. Rhaegar's son was born of _Lyanna Stark_, the woman he'd crowned queen of beauty at the tourney at Harrenhal, whom he had abducted a few years later.

When his eyes locked with those of the false bastard as the latter turned around to face him, Petyr almost wept in anger at his inability to predict _ history repeating itself. _

It didn’t matter who was Jon Snow's true father, for both Ned Stark or Rhaegar Targaryen could’ve passed onto him the inclination to steal what belonged to others. The Quiet Wolf had stolen Catelyn from Petyr just as the Dragon Prince had stolen Lyanna from Robert Baratheon. 

And now, it was more than probable that their son would steal either, if not _ both _ of the only things the Mockingbird valued in this world: Sansa Stark and the Iron Throne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Daryn Horwood died by Jaime Lannister's sword in the books, but the show never showed his death so he's alive in this AU.
> 
> Who could've expected Jon to be Littlefinger's downfall? A bird simply cannot measure up against a direwolf slash dragon, even if he knows nothing.
> 
> These two chapters were kinda long, so I aim at making lucky chapter 13 shorter.  
Thank you for sticking with this story!


	13. The Lord of Riverrun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmure Tully receives the unexpected visit of his niece Sansa, the Queen in the North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this chapter consists of the internal musings of Edmure Tully. I didn't like how immature he still was in the season finale of the show. After all he's been through, you'd think that the man would go through some character development. That's all the more plausible since he shares similar experiences with Sansa.

It was another day of loneliness for the Lord of Riverrun, who had been shouldering the responsibilities of the Lord Paramount alone for the past fortnight. 

Though elated to be finally free from captivity after the mysterious slaughter of Walder Frey and his sons, Edmure had returned to the home he’d delivered to the Lannister full of shame. He had nevertheless organized a quick feast to announce his official return and had held a meeting with several vassal lords to organize the Riverlands for winter. 

No honor, no family. _ Duty _ was the only value that kept him a true Tully. He had to redeem himself by being the son Hoster Tully would be proud of.

Edmure wanted his people to be ready for the harsh climate. Winter had come unannounced, just like the restoration of House Stark. Who knew what unforeseen wars could break during these uncertain times. 

Catelyn's eldest daughter crowning herself Queen in the North, ruler of the North _ and _ the Vale, might trigger yet another conflict in the Seven Kingdoms. Sansa Stark—no longer Lady Bolton—was lucky that for the moment, the Lannisters were distracted by the Mad King's daughter.

Maybe that was why the Lord Paramount of the Trident had not received any letter back from the Kingslayer, who held hostage his Edmure’s lady wife and son in the Red Keep. Jaime Lannister currently had greater concerns than keeping his promise to send ravens from the capital with new of Edmure’s family.

_ Or, _ the oathbreaker had lied to him and killed his lady love and his heir even after Edmure had respected his part of their negotiations. It wouldn't be the knight's greatest crime.

Refusing to let despair consume him, Edmure wrote yet another letter after training—many of his men were happy to have him back with the exception of the Blackwood soldiers. Hoster and Alyn Blackwood had helped Brynden Tully regain Riverrun from the Freys. They silently resented the new Lord Tully for betraying the Blackfish.

Edmure was on his way to the rookery when Utherydes caught up to him, huffing and puffing as he called out his name (he ought to find a new steward, along with a new master-at-arms, but he knew better than to rush a turnover of his household.)

"My Lord," the old man said between gulps of air. "I never once imagined that I'd see...such beast…again!"

"Speak plainly, Wayn," the Lord of Riverrun ordered as he pocketed his scroll, more annoyed than alarmed by the delay.

"Your niece Sansa Stark," the steward announced. "She's requesting safe passage to the castle.”

Edmure blinked in confusion.

What would the Queen in the North be doing in the South?

The Lord Paramount followed his steward to a window giving view to the moat, and immediately understood Utherydes' awe.

Edmure remembered being impressed and slightly fearful of Robb Stark’s direwolf, Grey Wind: the beast was still growing and it had already been as large as a pony, hence the rumours that king Robb rode him into battle.

The direwolf that Lord Tully was looking at now was even more intimidating than Grey Wind: its fur was white as snow, its eyes red as blood. It was as tall as a stallion on four legs, and wider at the shoulders.

While the beast was fearsome, its rider was regal: Sansa Stark looked taller, more beautiful, and more commanding than Edmure had expected of his niece.

Behind the young queen was a very small retinue: of the two riders closest to Sansa was Brienne of Tarth, and the other carried the Stark sigil; behind them were two Northerners: one wearing furs and the other carrying the Mormont sigil; closing the small procession was a knight of the Vale.

The iron crown resting on her head was the only sign that Sansa Stark herself was a northerner: the armored bodice that covered the chest of her deep blue dress resembled the chestplate of the Tully armor. Her fiery red hair was gathered in the same simple braid Edmure’s sister Catelyn had been known to wear. 

_ Family _, Lord Tully couldn't help thinking before he instructed Wayne to prepare the Great Hall for their guests and to bring refreshments to his solar.

He himself descended to the yard and walked to the drawbridge, unsurprised by the gathered soldiers—there were too many soldiers standing guard at the ramparts.

"Lower the bridge!" he ordered, and wasn't shocked to see his command carried out right away.

Of course his men were curious about the red-headed queen riding a direwolf. All of them had fought for Robb Stark, the first King in the North since the Targaryen invasion of Westeros.

A series of gasps and hushed exclamations resonated across the yard as Sansa Stark crossed the bridge and rode into the castle grounds, her direwolf looking even bigger from up close.

She took her time to dismount the white beast, Lady Brienne landing her a hand.

And, _ oh _, of course the direwolf was taller on its hindlegs. By the Seven, how did one feed such a monstrous animal?

"Lord Tully," the young queen greeted solemnly as she slowly walked up to him, and Edmure was pleased that while she didn't have the same pitch as Catelyn, Sansa had a proper Southern accent. 

"_Uncle _,” she corrected at a lower and softer voice when she got closer. “I thank you for allowing me and my retinue into your home. It is my first time visiting my mother's birthplace, and I deeply regret that I do so now that she has left us. I miss her dearly."

"So do I, niece," he replied warmly. "You and yours are welcome in my home. My steward is presently preparing bread and salt for the guest right ceremony."

"Is there any need for that, my lord?" the girl questioned with a slight frown that made her look very much like her mother. "I am no guest, I am _ family_."

"Yes you are, niece," the Lord Paramount agreed, "but the members of your retinue are not. It is tradition…A tradition that must regain its sacred value, considering what happened to the last ruler of the North."

"You are right, uncle," she queen consented. "And I thank you again for your swift welcome. Our journey was swift and exhausting."

"Catelyn’s rooms are being prepared for you as we speak,” Edmure announced as he offered his right elbow to his niece.

She moved even more elegantly than Cat, and definitely held herself more confidently than Roslin. Truly a queen.

“May I inquire about the reason of your visit, Your Grace?” the Lord of Riverrun requested once he and the queen arrived in his solar, Brienne of Tarth and (surprisingly) a Blackwood soldier stationed outside while the huge direwolf had somehow sneaked inside the room undetected.

“I bear grave news, My Lord,” Sansa announced somberly as she stood by the window, momentarily taking in the view before she locked gaze with him. “The dead are coming.”

It took almost an hour for the Stark queen to convince Edmure that evil, magical beings were threatening all of the living in Westeros. It was quite one thing to learn that Daenerys Targaryen had three grown dragons, and to make peace with the existence of his own niece’s direwolf, but quite another to acknowledge the existence of an ice king—no, _Night_ King—using dead people from beyond the wall as his army.

Sansa assured that her half-brother, Jon Snow, was gathering powerful allies to help the North and the Vale fight off the terrible enemy—why would Edmure’s niece allow that bastard to be her heir? The lad had been the boon of Catelyn’s existence!—but that additional swords would allow a swifter and less costly victory against the dead.

“My niece, I’m afraid that I cannot join your fight,” the Lord Paramount sadly informed her.

“Not you too,” the young queen sighed, disappointed.

“What do you mean, not me too?” Edmure asked, confused.

Sansa clasped her hands together, and only then did Lord Tully noticed that she also had leather bracers on. She looked ready for war, though she had no sword at her hip.

“When I escaped captivity from Ramsay Bolton, I requested help from granduncle Brynden to help me retake Winterfell in the name of House Stark,” the girl informed him. “He declined to send his troops North, even though Lady Brienne whom I had sent as my messenger succeeded in arranging a truce with Jaime Lannister that would allow them safe passage.”

Shock and sorrow constricted Lord Tully’s chest.

No one had told him about that arrangement. Not only had Blackfish not cared about Edmure’s life, but he’d also refused to help his grandniece? The older man had been a great military leader, but his disregard for _ family_ had made him a poor leader of the people of the Riverlands. He’d risked the safety of everyone outside the castle by stubbornly opposing the Lannisters in the name of honor.

The same people Edmure was duty-bound to protect.

“I am sorry to have you denied the help of House Tully a second time, niece,” he apologized earnestly, “but if I ally myself with you, the Lannisters will return roaring at my doorstep. Everyone knows that Cersei Lannisters put a bounty on your head. I already risk her wrath by hosting you right now.”

“I do not wish you to have your allegiance questioned with an alliance, uncle,” Sansa surprisingly claimed as she lifted her chin defiantly.

She was of a height with Edmure, so the movement had the intended intimidating effect.

“I wish you would _bend the knee_, to declare yourself a vassal to the crown of the North, so that everyone would know that you are living the words of your House: Family, Duty, Honor.”

The Lord of Riverrun gasped at the bold request, too shocked to express his outrage at the girl’s impertinence.

Yes, Riverrun had declared for House Stark during the War of the Five Kings, but that had been because the King in the North, Robb Stark, had all the rights to rebel against Joffrey Baratheon, who had unjustly beheaded Lord Eddard Stark.

Sansa _ Bolton _ had rebelled against her own lord husband, reclaimed Winterfell as a Stark, and crowned herself as Queen of the North _and_ the Vale while she had no rights to do so.

How dare she to ask her own uncle to risk _ everything _ by becoming her vassal?

“You presume too much, niece,” Edmure warned her as calmly as he could. “I have welcomed you into my home because you are family, but I may very well ask you to leave for proffering such treasonous words.”

“Treasonous,” the young queen repeated with a humorless chuckle. “Tell me, uncle, for I am not as well-learned as you, what constitutes a treasonous act?”

“Any crime perpetrated against someone whom is owed allegiance,” Lord Tully immediately informed her. “Such as the way you betrayed your lord husband, Ramsay Bolton.”

“Ramsay _ Snow _ was the one who betrayed me first,” she claimed vehemently. “I was his wife and the Lady of Winterfell, but spent my days locked up in a room where he would beat me and defile me every day. If propriety didn’t preclude such an action, I would gladly show you the scars that prove the dishonor he brought to my person.”

Edmure was taken aback by the queen’s crude honesty, and appalled to hear what had befallen Catelyn’s daughter in the walls of her own home.

“Still, waging a war against your own husband _was_ treasonous,” he insisted, “especially as you did so with the help of your bastard brother deserter—”

“Jon was _released_ from his vows after he himself was betrayed by the Night's Watch men he commanded,” the northern queen asserted. “I was at Castle Black, I heard first accounts of what transpired there. My brother is the most _honorable_ man I’ve ever met, Lord Tully, and the most _dutiful_. He didn’t want to fight the Boltons, but he did so to restore House Stark in Winterfell. He did it because he wanted to protect me, his sister. That makes a _family_ man too.”

The Lord of Riverrun reeled at the blatant insinuation that Lord Stark’s bastard was respectful of House Tully’s words, when he had been but a stain in Catelyn’s honor as Lady Stark.

“Tell me, Lord Tully,” Sansa demanded, “to whom did your house declare _ last_, before you were held hostage by the Freys following the gruesome slaughter of King Robb Stark, his mother Catelyn Stark née Tully, and his pregnant wife Talisa Stark? To whom did you owe your allegiance?”

“I was _ then _ declared to House Stark,” Edmure admitted, “but I last declared to House _Lannister_, when they let me regain control of Riverrun without bloodshed…”

“_Regain_ control? Riverrun was under the leadership of granduncle Brynden _Tully!_” she pointed out passionately. “So you betrayed _ your own family _ to swear your allegiance to the same people who ordered the massacre of your sister, your king nephew, and many men under your command?”

“I swore allegiance to the Lannisters to ensure the _ future _ of House Tully!” he corrected his niece. “My wife Roslin and my heir Eddard are being held hostages in King's Landing. Had I refused the demands of the Kingslayer, the two of them would have been murdered just like Cat and Robb! I sacrificed my honor for the sake of my family, because family comes _before_ duty and honor!”

He relished in the silence that followed his speech, though Sansa didn’t look chastised.

“Your wife Roslin _ Frey_, the daughter of the turncoat Walder Frey,” the young queen pointed out coldly, “a traitor to House Tully.”

“Spare me the condescending reminder, Your Grace,” Edmure drawled, “you yourself were married to Ramsay, the son of the turncoat Roose Bolton. A traitor to House Stark.”

“And I made sure that House Bolton paid for their betrayal,” the Stark Queen asserted. “I manipulated Ramsay into killing his own father and trueborn brother, then I myself fed Ramsay to his hounds. I, _ Sansa Stark_, avenged my mother and brother, _ your _ sister and nephew.”

A shiver ran through Lord Tully’s body as he stood in front of this queen, this she-wolf he had taken for a defenseless sheep back when he’d heard of her survival from King's Landing and return to Winterfell.

He’d been intrigued by the rumors that Cersei Lannister would reward handsomely anyone who would bring her his niece’s head. After all, Sansa had been an innocent girl when she’d been held hostage in King’s Landing. Why would the Queen of Westeros be so relentless in her hunt for Catelyn’s sweet daughter?

Sansa Stark was _ not _ sweet. She was _ dangerous_. In better circumstances, Edmure would gladly side with another Stark ruler proving more worthy of respect that their young age suggested, but he had his House and land to care for.

“I commend you for avenging your family, and for restoring House Stark, Your Grace,” he complimented the young queen. “But I hope that you sympathize with my wish to similarly restore House Tully. I have an heir, and his safety is my priority. I cannot declare for the crown of the North knowing that doing so would sentence him to death. Please forgive me.”

To his surprise, Sansa Stark didn’t look furious that he was placing the fruit of his union with a Frey above her. After all, Edmure could renounce his wife and take another, and have a new heir. It would be in his rights, as Roslin was indeed the daughter of a turncoat. His lady wife didn’t even have a living brother to defend her honor and demand compensation for being abandoned.

But Edmure _loved_ his beautiful wife, and though he knew that her safety would never be guaranteed in King’s Landing or Lannisport, he had to protect her and their son however he could.

“My brother Rickon was captured by Ramsay when I found refuge at Castle Black,” his niece informed him—or rather, recounted, her gaze unfocused as if she was reliving the memory.

“I knew that Ramsay wouldn’t let my brother live,” Catelyn’s daughter recalled with emotion. “Rickon was then the rightful Lord of Winterfell, so a traitor like Ramsay would make sure that he wouldn’t stand in his way to rule the North.”

The queen let her head drop for a few heartbeats, but instead of discreetly wiping her tears, she lifting her gaze again and stared at Edmure with wet streaks on her cheeks.

“I will feel guilty about my baby brother’s death for the rest of my life, uncle,” she told him, “but I know that I was right to oppose my then husband. When I escaped my _ own home_, I thought that I was the last surviving Stark. All I wanted was to find a safe haven, a place where I could survive out of the reach of my family’s enemies. But then I realized that I could never be safe as long as the traitors would be alive, hunting me down like the hounds Ramsay had unleashed on me when I escaped Winterfell.”

She took a centering breath, and lifted her chin again. 

“The idea of losing my brother, of losing another member of _my family_…It did not dissuade me from opposing the Boltons,” she informed Lord Tully. “Instead, it renewed my commitment to stand strong against those who’d betrayed my family, because House Stark could have _ no true future_ if I acceded to the demands of liars, cheaters, and killers.”

Edmure watch Catelyn’s daughter warily, anticipating her coming argument.

“Your wife and child are at the mercy of _ Cersei Lannister_, Lord Tully,” the young queen finally stated the obvious. “The false queen is cruel and perfidious. Do you truly believe that she’ll ever let you reunite with your family? That you’ll be granted the wish to rebuild your house, which has every right to demand retribution from _ Cersei's_?”

No, in truth, The Lord Paramount of the Trident doubted that he’d ever see his wife and son again.

Edmure had suspected that the Lannisters wouldn’t uphold their part of their agreement when he was unceremoniously thrown back into the dungeons at the Twins after he’d given away his home to the traitors.

But living in denial had been his only coping mechanism as he shouldered new responsibilities without the emotional support he’d expected to have when he succeeded his father as the new Lord of Riverrun. The hope of reuniting with his family was what helped him leave his bed every morning and make sure that the castle was ready to welcome Roslin and Eddard for the day they miraculously returned.

They would _never_ return. For all Lord Tully knew, his wife and heir were already dead, and Sansa Stark right in front of him was his only surviving kin.

He had family and he had duty. All he needed to be a true Lord of Riverrun was to reclaim his _honor._

“You are right, niece,” he conceded as he gripped the hilt of his sword with his left hand and deftly slid it a few inches out of its scabbard.

“I have no guarantee that my son will ever see Riverrun,” he continued as he took out his sword with his right hand. “And even if I were to receive a letter from the Kingslayer this day, giving me assurances about little Eddard’s safety, I still shouldn’t have the entire Riverlands be under the command of House Lannister. Lannisters are liars, cheaters and killers, and I will be associated with them _no longer._”

His heart bleeding for Roslin and Eddard, Lord Tully kneeled to the Queen in the North in his solar. With teary eyes, he presented his sword to his niece.

“In the name of Catelyn Stark née Tully, my departed sister and your mother, I Edmure Tully of Riverrun, Lord Paramount of the Trident, solemnly proclaim the allegiance of the Riverlands to Your Grace Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Queen in the North. By swearing fealty to you my niece, _my family,_ I make it my duty to fight your battles, to fight your war against the Night King and all your enemies. I only ask that you will allow me to restore my honor by leading your troops when the day comes that we wage war against the Lannisters. You eliminated the Boltons, some mysterious army exterminated the Freys. Let House Tully avenge your predecessor, King Robb, for the crimes committed at the Red Wedding.”

“Rise, Lord Edmure Tully, Lord Paramount of the Trident, loyal vassal of the crown of the Three Kingdoms,” Sansa responded, new tears brightening her sky blue eyes. “Uncle,” she added, her voice breaking as she gripped his forearm.

Edmure hadn’t felt this proud since the battle of Stone Mill, when he’d managed to defeat the Mountain’s forces.

His pride then had been fueled by glory, for which all members of his family had reprimanded him. But today, his pride was fueled by true Tully values.

Lord Tully sheathed his sword and embraced his niece, returning her happy laughter.

“Catelyn would be so proud of you, Sansa,” he assured the young queen. “_I _ am proud of you. _ My _ niece is a queen!”

His words were followed by the unexpected croak of a raven on the other side of his window.

While Edmure frowned in confusion at the bird tapping at the glass with its beak, Sansa unceremoniously opened the window and extended her arm, the crow perching itself on her bracer.

Only then did the Lord of Riverrun notice the scrolls attached to the bird's legs. Why had it landed at the window of his solar rather than the rookery?

"Wait, niece!" he tried to stop the queen from unsealing the messages, to no avail. Oddly enough, it was the Stark sigil that featured on the two broken seals.

“I know that it isn’t much reward for your allegiance, but know that little Eddard is fifth in line to the throne,” the Queen in the North declared after she finished reading both messages, pocketing one of them in a hidden seam of her bodice.

“But, my son is as good as lost, Sansa,” Edmure objected weakly, his heart stuttering in his chest when the young woman shook her head with a growing smile, then extended him the remaining parchment.

Uncertain, he took the scroll and read its content.

The Lord Paramount of the Trident almost shouted in joy as he went through the message:

“_ To My Lord Husband Edmure Tully, Rightful Lord of Riverrun, _

_ It is with joy and relief that I write to you, my love, as I and little Eddard camp two days ride away from King’s Landing. We are escorted by your niece Arya Stark and, to my unabated astonishment, by Jaime Lannister. Your fierce youngest niece managed to sneak me and our son out of the Red Keep. I thought her attempt vain when we were caught by Ser Jaime at the gates, but he was the one who guaranteed our safe departure from the capital. Arya assures me that we will arrive to the Riverrun within a day of you receiving this letter from the hands of Queen Sansa Stark herself. The fast ride has been arduous for me, but thankfully the constant movement easily luls Eddard to sleep. I cannot wait to finally see Riverrun nor to reunite with you. _

_ Yours Truly and Always, _

_ Roslin Tully_.”

Edmure recognized his wife’s handwriting. When he had first been thrown to the dungeons under Walder Frey’s order, she had not been allowed to see him, but had managed to sneak him short messages through guards who fancied the only beautiful daughter of Lord Frey. 

Lord Tully could hardly believe it. His wife and son were safe and en route to the castle! His family would be returned to him.

“Arya is alive?” he belatedly exclaimed. “I remember that Catelyn released the Kingslayer against Robb's order and made him promise to bring her back her two daughters. That must be why he did not imprison your sister when he caught her.”

“You are correct,” Sansa confirmed with a nod. “Arya’s message informs me that Jaime Lannister personally intends to fight with us against the army of the dead.”

“Can he be trusted?” Edmure questioned warily. “His sister wants you dead, and with the Riverlands joining your kingdom…”

“Lady Brienne assured me that we could, and now so does Arya,” the young queen asserted. “That is enough for me, though I really trust no one outside of my family.”

“I will try my best to earn that trust, niece,” Lord Tully promised. “And I thank you for organizing the rescue of my wife and son, though I admit being confused by your harsh words on Roslin earlier.”

“Roslin _ is _ the daughter of a traitor, that is the simple truth,” the Stark Queen insisted. “But I myself carried the same shameful brand for years in King’s Landing, so I know that it says nothing about your wife’s character. The fact that she trusted Arya to escape King’s Landing and that she risked her life to reunite with her lord husband tells me that she observes the words of House Tully. She is my aunt by alliance, and I am proud to call her family.”

Fresh tears rolled down Edmure’s cheeks.

He’d woken up weighed down by his worries about the fate of his family, and though he now had a war to prepare for, he could not be any happier now that the future of his house was secured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and constructive feedback are greatly appreciated!
> 
> Back to Winterfell for the next couple chapters because I got it so damn crowded.
> 
> What encompassing name would sound nicer than "The Three Kingdoms", by the way? "Higher Westeros"? "The Tripartite Kingdom"?


	14. The Kingslayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime Lannister might just be the key to winning the war against the army of the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just kidding! But hey, why not?  
This is the prelude to a so far 3-part Winterfell Act, so that's why it's a bit short.  
Sorry for any Brienne/Jaime shipper (I am one myself, though I prefer them platonic) but I don't have the energy for another romantic pairing...Unless I get inspiring suggestions, of course.

After quickly relieving himself, Jaime returned to his lonely camp outside of Riverrun. But instead of seeing the Tully sentinels he expected as he readied his horse, he was greeted by Lady Brienne of Tarth.

The warmth creeping up his chest at the sight of the tall woman was the best feeling the knight had felt in a while. It did not make him feel any better for what had happened in King’s Landing, but it was a progress from his morosity last night.

After exchanging a few terse words with the lady soldier, Jaime followed her down the hill, and he stared, jaw on the grassy ground, as Brienne posted herself a couple paces away from a huge white beast. 

It was a direwolf, just as tall as a horse and wider, on which Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, was seated. And staring down at him.

Though many would like to think that Lady Sansa—no, it was _ Her Grace _ now, and was there a fifth queen somewhere, that Westeros might go through a _ War of the Five Queens _ this time?—resembled her mother, what with her red hair and blue eyes, Jaime Lannister also saw some of Eddard Stark in the young woman. The stern set of her brow, maybe. The pinch of her lips, definitely. The direwolf certainly helped, though Ned Stark had never seemed that fierce or dangerous to the knight. In that, Sansa resembled her dead brother, Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, and last King in the North.

But it was her overall aura, which screamed _ honor_, that distinguished Sansa Stark from her younger sister Arya. The latter had the proper Stark looks, but Jaime had learned the hard way that she was not above committing underhanded crimes. That was one of the reasons why he had ended up in the Riverlands and was headed North.

The queen’s retinue was miniscule, consisting of a knight of the Vale, a Mormont soldier, some Northerner in furs, then Lady Brienne and Podrick Payne. Well, Arya Stark definitely counted as a guard for her own sister.

“Your Grace,” Jaime greeted with a moderate bow when it was clear that the northern queen didn’t wish to speak first. “It is nice to see you safe and hale, Sansa Stark. Last I heard, you were trying to reclaim your ancestral home…From your _ husband_? A complicated affair, I’m sure. But it seems that all is well, and Winterfell is back under the fair guidance of House Stark.”

Gods, that was awkward, wasn’t it? He couldn’t help it, the piercing gaze of the redhead was quite intimidating. 

More intimidating that Cersei’s sneer, which was the last image Jaime might have of his sister-lover.

Leaving King’s Landing had not been in the knight’s plans four days ago, but he couldn’t say that he was sorry for it. He had been choking with feelings of outrage, guilt and regret in the Red Keep.

“Ser Jaime,” Sansa Stark greeted back, and would you hear that? She had her mother’s accent, but the clipped tone of her father. What a perfect merge of the two parents. 

“Lady Brienne informed me that you were willing to let my grand-uncle Brynden Tully assist me in reclaiming Winterfell,” the young queen declared, loudly enough for her entire albeit small retinue to hear. “Lady Brienne, who _ you _ personally armed to find and protect me and my sister Arya here present, as part of the vow that you both made to our mother Lady Catelyn Stark.”

Was that her way of saying _ thank you_? She didn’t look very grateful, though Jaime admitted that he hadn’t done much to fulfill his vow to Lady Catelyn.

He had been eager to reunite with his own family, both when he first travelled with Brienne and when he had met the lady soldier again outside Riverrun not even a moon ago.

“For fulfilling your promise to my mother, I, Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, ruler of the North, the Vale and the Riverlands, name you Ser Jaime, former Kingsguard of the Seven Kingdoms, a friend of House Stark. You are welcome into the walls of Winterfell, and no harm shall come to your person within the lands under my rule. You are free to your own allegiances as long as they do not threaten my family or my people.”

Jaime struggle to keep his face neutral.

Ruler of the North, the Vale _and_ the Riverlands? Ned Stark’s eldest daughter was queen of _ three _ kingdoms?

The knight couldn’t help but stare at Brienne, who didn’t quite _ smile_, but a lift at the corner of her lips was a sure indicator of her smugness.

_ In my experience, _ _ girls like her don't _ _ live very long. _

_ I _ _ don't think you know many girls like her _ _ . _

Indeed, Jaime didn’t know _ any _ girl like Sansa Stark, and he was certain that he still had much to learn about the only person Cersei hated with more passion than she despised Tyrion.

And what poetic justice, that Ned Stark’s daughter would not only reclaim her brother’s throne, but also take the Vale and Riverrun out of the Iron Throne’s rule right after Cersei had crowned herself queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Now the Starks and their close relatives were independent from any Lannister influence.

“I thank you for your invitation and protection, Your Grace,” the knight made the effort to reply...and hell, _ why not? _ He unsheathed one of the two swords with which he had fortunately left King’s Landing.

Widow’s Wail. Gods, what an awful name. Jaime could guess that his bastard son had been referring to Lady Catelyn when he renamed part of her husband’s sword.

“I am but one knight, a maimed one at that,” he spoke loud and clear before lowering himself on a knee. “But I hereby vow to fight alongside your army to defeat the menace from beyond the Wall.”

He couldn’t quite remember the name of those dreadful creatures Arya Stark claimed were ready to invade Westeros, coming with the sole intention to kill every last living person on the continent. Wights, or walkers. Walking dead? No, that didn’t sound right. He did remember that they had a king.

The Night King, yes, that’s what Arya Stark had said. 

And now Jaime wondered if the name of that king of the dead was at all related to the name of the _Night’s Watch._ Is that who those poor blokes in black had supposedly ‘watched’ for all these centuries, at the freezing end of the world? He had always wondered.

Maybe he would ask Jon Snow in Winterfell. The bastard had mysteriously been released from his vows to serve at Castle Black, which was possibly why the Queen in the North didn’t look at the Kingslayer with the same disdain and disgust that her dead parents had. Unlike Lord and Lady Stark, she likely understood that some oaths had to be broken to serve the greater good.

Nevertheless, it was clear that Sansa Stark hadn’t expected her sister to divulge the information about the army of the dead, though she only briefly glanced at Arya with a reproachful glare before refocusing her attention on Jaime.

“Your sword is welcome, Ser Jaime,” she replied mildly, though her frown made the knight think that she recognized it.

“Valyrian steel,” Arya Stark immediately identified the make of the blade.

“Widow's Wail, the sister sword to Oathkeeper,” the former kingsguard specified. “Forged from Ice, the ancestral sword of House Stark. It belongs to your family, and I would gladly return it.”

The red-haired queen looked at her sister more conspicuously this time, lifting an inquiring eyebrow.

“I already have Needle,” the younger Stark woman reminded as she gripped the hilt of her skinny sword (very fitting name). “And anyways, I’ll have a special weapon made from dragonglass.”

Dragonglass? Jaime wasn’t familiar with that. He’d read about it somewhere during his lessons as a bright-eyed squire, but had never seen it with his own eyes. 

“You can keep the sword for now, Ser Jaime,” Sansa Stark decided. “But you shall rename it.”

Of course. Jaime wondered if his eldest bastard son had ever threatened her with the longsword. It wouldn’t be the greatest sin Joffrey had committed against the then scared little girl.

“Northbound,” he decided, rolling the two syllables on his tongue as he held the northern queen’s gaze.

Northbound. It could be interpreted as the literal direction the sword was headed, or as the fact that the sword had ties to the North.

“Northbound,” Sansa Stark repeated, and she seemed to approve.

Jaime glanced at Brienne, who was definitely smiling now, her eyes bright with unshed tears. She no doubt thought that this insignificant act was contributing to the redemption of his soul or such other wistful belief.

He couldn’t lie, he admired the big woman’s naivete.

* * *

“You know that Cersei will send troops to retake Riverrun as soon as she hears about Edmure Tully bending the knee to you, right?” Jaime dared tell the young queen on the third day of their departure from Riverrun.

They were mere hours from Winterfell, which was visible in the distance.

(And the temperature kept decreasing along with the distance to the Starks' castle. Jaime was shamelessly wearing one of Lady Brienne’s large fur cloaks, and he was _still_ freezing his balls off!)

The queen had ordered the Mormont soldier and knight of the Vale to scout the area and determine whether it was a good temporary camp site for the Riverlands soldiers coming in a sennight.

“You only managed to retake Riverrun from the Blackfish because you used Lord Edmure against him,” it was Brienne who replied. “Now that Lord Edmure is in charge and has seen to his heir’s safety, you have no means of seizing Riverrun while also battling Daenerys Targaryen.”

Not untrue. And yes, fighting off the dragon queen’s forces was Cersei’s priority.

Jaime had refused to lead the invasion of the Reach, unwilling to risk _his life_ against Randyll Tarly when it had already crumbled after the news of his youngest child’s death.

The siege of Highgarden had been successful, but that was only because none of the Tyrells had been within its walls, so its protection had been minimal.

_ The Tyrells_. Seven Hells, Cersei had burned the main branch of that house to the ground of Baelor’s Great Sept. Jaime _ knew _ that Tommen had taken his life because he’d lost his queen, Margaery Tyrell.

Wouldn’t Jaime himself have died many times over if he hadn’t had his sister-lover to return to? It was tragic that his illegitimate son had inherited his mindless devotion to the subject of his love.

For years, Jaime had done unspeakable things just to be with Cersei, but _ no more. _

Maimed knight he might be, but he could still fight. He had actually made a breakthrough in his swordsmanship by watching Arya Stark practice with her Needle. She was left-handed too, though by birth instead of necessity.

Who knew? Maybe Jaime would manage to kill that Night King who was coming to conquer life.

He had already killed one king to save Westeros from fire, he wouldn’t mind killing another to save it from ice.

“I’m not well-versed in the art of war, Ser Jaime,” Sansa Stark said, bringing his attention back to the matter at hand—and bringing his attention back to the direwolf that was laying its huge head in her lap as if it was a mere lapdog.

“but I believe that marching in open fields would expose the Lannister army to ambushes. Yes? Daenerys Targaryen has _ dragons_. She seems unwilling to attack King’s Landing because of the people—it is said that she values the lives of the innocents, _ unlike _ Cersei. But a marching army in an open field? She would burn them to ashes.”

“It is also said that Daenerys Targaryen wants to be seen as a _ benevolent _ queen,” the Lannister felt compelled to counter. “If she _ burns _ people, even at war, she will be seen as an evil queen, as the _Mad King’s_ daughter. A Mad Queen.”

“There’s already a Mad Queen in Westeros,” the red-haired woman bit out. “And it’s _ your sister._”*

Jaime frowned at the unexpected display of emotions from the redhead. Until then, Sansa Stark had appeared regal and serene despite the hard ride on the kingsroad—she had switched to a horse, which had been sensible considering that she had no saddle for her direwolf.

But now, even though she was seated, the young queen was gripping the immaculate white fur of her beast as if she was in need of support.*

“Cersei might be mad, but her reputation as a Lannister takes precedence over any title she might earn individually,” the former kingsguard asserted carefully. “Daenerys Targaryen is the sole member of her house and—”

He trailed off when the sky suddenly turned obscure. A big cloud over the sun?

“Dragons!” One of the men of the northern queen’s retinue shouted, getting everyone in a frenzy, though the Stark sisters and Lady Brienne kept their wits about them as three winged beasts soared through the clouds—all of them were incredibly large, to be sure, but one of them was beyond _enormous_.

“Jon did it,” the Queen in the North told no one in particular with a smile.

“He’s too early,” Arya Stark pointed out. “You won’t be there to greet Daenerys Targaryen.”

Wait, _what?_ Wasn’t Daenerys Targaryen supposed to be engaged in war in the South? Sansa Stark had _ just _ speculated that it would benefit Aerys’ daughter to defeat the Lannister army in open field. What was the dragon queen doing _ North_?

The grating caw of a crow made Jaime look up again after the shadows of the dragons retreated. That’s why he didn’t see the grey direwolf coming, and almost pissed himself when it passed right by him, its breath fogging right in front of the knight’s face.

The black bird landed on Sansa’s bracer, while the direwolf licked Arya’s face.

Gods, these Starks were _weird._

“Jon and Daenerys Targaryen are still half a day from Winterfell,” the young queen announced after reading a tiny scroll that had been attached to the crow—it was _ not _ a raven, it was a crow.

“We have time to change and have Bran update us on the war preparations, then,” the younger Stark sister declared as she jumped on the back of the newly arrived direwolf. “Race you to the South Gate!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the red-haired queen immediately declined the challenge, though she asked Podric to ready her saddle and told the Northerner in furs to fetch the two scouts.

None of them noticed the Kingslayer’s unease.

_ Brandon Stark _ was alive?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * That's my very subtle way of having Sansa feel sad and angry about Margaery's death.
> 
> Comments are always appreciated! Jon's POV next.


	15. Jaehaerys Targaryen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon returns to Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought that a flashback to Jon's failed execution was needed before diving into the Winterfell drama.

It doesn’t hurt_, Jon realized, his eyes tightly shut, as heat enveloped his whole body. _

_ He felt his leather melt down all around his body, and hissed when a hot drop touched his toes. Only then did he realize the implication of the fact that _ his clothes were burning _ . _

_ He immediately dropped into a crouch in a vain attempt to preserve his modesty. He opened his eyes just as the last of the dragon fire winked out into the mild but windy air of the cliff. _

_ Right in front of him, Daenerys Targaryen was staring, her features frozen between a cruel rictus and shock, which oddly contrasted with the calm expression of Lady Melisandre who was standing on the other side of the dragon. _

_ “Give the Prince something to cover himself!” Ser Davos was the first person to break the human silence, his voice carrying over the crash of waves against the rocks and the frantic beat of Jon’s heart. _

_ A few moments later, Larence Snow wrapped his own light fur coat over Jon, who sighed in relief and thanked the lad as he stood up. _

_ “What is the meaning of this, Daenerys Targaryen?” Daryn Hornwood demanded from across Dothraki guards. “We come in peace and break bread in your castle, then you attempt to _ murder _ the heir Prince of the North!” _

_ Jon’s aunt blinked as she looked at the Northern noble, and blood drained from her face as she looked back at Jon. _

_ “As you can see, no harm has come to your Prince, Lord Hornwood,” Tyrion Lannister pointed out diplomatically. “Her Grace Daenerys was simply confirming that your heir Prince of the North is actually the heir…” _

_ Jon wasn’t close enough to hear the Dwarf’s jaw click shut, but he saw his aunt glare at her Hand. _

_ “You survived dragon fire,” Larence whispered at the prince’s side, his eyes wide with awe, his voice full of reverence. “I kept hearing wildlings claiming that you’re one of the old gods reincarnated…” _

_ “I’m not a god,” Jon immediately corrected the other bastard. _

You’re not a bastard_, he reminded himself as he looked back at Daenerys. _

_ “You’re a dragon,” she said, her voice loud but wavering, full of unspoken questions. “You’re like _me_,” she added as she took a step towards him, and Jon grabbed Larence’s arm to prevent him from shielding his prince from the southern queen. _

_ “Jaehaerys,” the mother of dragons called softly, a shaky hand lifting from her side, but she kept it down when Jon glared at her, channeling all his outrage and anger—against her, against himself, against _Littlefinger_, against the Night King who had made him go South. _

_ “Queen Sansa warned me against revealing my true identity,” he informed his aunt. “She feared that you’d see me as an obstacle to your claim to the Iron Throne, while I told her that you wouldn’t wish me any harm because I’m your only _ family_. I thought that you would be glad to know that I existed. But the moment I told you who I was, you decided to _ burn me_.” _

_ The dragon queen parted her lips, yet the first sound out of her mouth wasn’t a justification for her actions, but a sorrowful sob. She brought a hand to her lips just as tears started rolling down her cheeks. _

_ “Leave us!” Tyrion Lannister ordered before saying something in what had to be Dothraki. _

_ Jon nodded at Larence, shoving him gently to get him going before the Essosi warriors forced him to leave. _

_ “Keep an eye on Baelish,” he ordered the northerner in a low voice. “But stay out of sight unless you've ascertained that he knows about this.” _

_ “Yes, Your Grace,” the bastard acknowledged solemnly before walking away. _

_ Jon let out a long sigh, taking a curious sense of comfort at the presence of the red priestess, who remained standing by the huge black and red dragon. _

_ Even now that he knew himself immune to its fire, the northern prince was still terrified of the beast. _

_ “What happened here was a regrettable mistake, Snow,” the Hand to the dragon queen claimed as he approached. “I mean, Jaehaerys? Umm. Your Grace.” _

_ “It did not look like a mistake to me,” Jon denied, his eyes fixed on his aunt’s teary ones. _

_ “I’m so sorry, nephew,” she finally spoke, her voice breaking. _

_ Jon wanted to believe that she truly felt guilty for what she’d done, but it didn’t change the fact that his sire’s sister had tried to _ murder _ him. _

_ “You must understand,” she told him as she swiftly closed the distance between them, making the northerner startle as she grabbed one of his hands with both of hers. _

_ “Men have tried to undermine me all my life,” she recounted. “My _ own brother _ sold me to a savage to get an army so he could claim our family’s throne. A merchant from Qarth who claimed to be a friend tried to steal my children...Even my most faithful advisor turned out to be a spy who was reporting about my whereabouts to the Usurper…” _

_ “I am none of these men,” Jon reminded her as he took away his hand and adjusted the fur around his naked body. “I came to Dragonstone to negotiate _ an alliance _ with you in the hope to win a war that threatens all of humanity. A war that you’ve been told about yourself by Lady Melisandre!” he almost shouted as he pointed at the red priestess. _

_ “You obsess over a throne that isn’t your birthright,” the northern prince kept going before the white-haired queen could argue, “you worry about _ politics _ even as you know that a great threat comes from beyond the Wall, knowing that your troops would be better used in the war against the Night King. You call yourself ‘Protector of the Seven Kingdoms,’ yet you refuse to fight for its people.” _

_ “A war against this dreadful king would greatly diminish Her Grace’s forces,” Tyrion Lannister pointed out. “Which means that she wouldn’t be able to win her war against Cersei. Let us finish our war first, then—” _

_ “There is _ no time_!” Jon cut off the dwarf. “The Night King could be at the Wall as we speak, and we haven’t even turned the dragonglass into useful weapons!” _

_ “But fire is the only weapon needed, isn’t it?” Daenerys Targaryen asked, her voice steadier than moments ago. _

_ She raised a hand to quiet down her Hand as he opened his mouth to argue. _

_ “Against wights, yes,” Jon confirmed. “But valyrian steel or dragonglass is required to fell the Night King's generals the White Walkers, as they are impervious to fire. I don't even know what can be used against the Night King himself."_

_ “Impervious to fire, like us,” his aunt whispered. _

_ “The magic of the Night King is different from the magic of Old Valyria,” Lady Melisandre chimed in. “It is just as old, but originates from the Old Gods, not from the Lord of Fire.” _

_ “Which magic is stronger?” the dragon queen questioned the priestess. _

_ “Magic is magic,” the woman in red replied. “Its strength can only be measured through the earthly creatures who use it.” _

_ “That Night King doesn’t sound very ‘earthly’ to me,” the Imp commented with a scoff. _

_ “The Night King used to be a man,” Jon informed him. “He was turned into what he is today by the Children of the Forest, who themselves were creatures of magic.” _

_ “And how do you know that?” the Hand to the queen asked with a frown. _

_ “I know,” Jon simply answered before locking gazes with Daenerys. “And maybe the Night King’s magic is too strong for us to defeat him, but if we don’t _ try_, then humanity is doomed.” _

_ “We will not merely _ try _ to defeat him,” the young queen said as she lifted her chin. “We will _ destroy _ him and his entire army. We will obliterate this fearsome enemy to oblivion, and the threat of his name will disappear from the memory of men.” _

_ Jon felt that pull again, that unexplainable energy that begged for release, that primal need to prove himself worthy of such an inspirational oath. _

_ “So you will come with me to Winterfell?” he asked his aunt. “You will fight with us against the Night King?” _

_ “My Queen,” Tyrion Lannister tried to intervene, but Daenerys ignored him. _

_ “My alliance comes with a price,” she declared as she clasped her hands in front of her. _

_ “After what you did to me, you still want to make _ demands_?” the northern prince asked, incredulous. _

_ “I would be an incompetent queen if I did not secure my rule in these tumultuous times,” his southern relative replied calmly. “I must secure my legacy in the eventuality of my death. You can deny my claim to the Iron Throne, but _ I am _ Queen of Dragons Bay, Jaeherys. I have people to protect and care for, just like your _ cousin_. I cannot offer my valuable help to people who refuse to bend the knee to me without asking for something of great value in return.” _

_ “And what are you asking for?” Jon inquired tiredly. _

_ “That will be for me and Queen Sansa to discuss,” she answered with a smug smile that was mirrored on_ _ Tyrion Lannister's disfigured face._

_ Daenerys’ smile fell a moment later, and she sighed as she looked at her dragon—or maybe at the red priestess—over her shoulder. _

_ “I cannot think of any way to fully express remorse for my actions, nephew,” she said quietly as she looked back at Jon. “But I promise to treat you like family from now on, to treat you like I wish I’d been treated by my brother: with care and respect. Please give us a chance to get to know each other. We are the last of our kind."_

_ Jon wasn’t sure that he would ever fully trust the dragon queen, not like he would trust his Stark relatives—not the way he was learning to trust _Sansa_ unconditionally._

_ But his aunt seemed determined to fight for the living, and that was all he had hoped for. _

_ “Alright,” he whispered with a curt nod, adjusting Larence Snow’s fur cloak when it threatened to fall over. _

_ Daenerys followed the rushed movement of his hands, and pinched her lips in displeasure. _

_ “Let me start with giving you clothes befitting of your stature, Jaehaerys Targaryen,” she announced before shouting at her Dothraki guards stationed a few dozen paces away—her voice easily carrying over the ever loud sound of the waves._

_ Jon startled when he heard a low roar just as a gust of wind swept over the cliff, but remained as immobile as he could when his aunt’s eyes followed movements right behind him. _

_ The rocky ground repeatedly shook beneath the northern prince’s feet, and a few tumultuous heart beats later he felt a huge mass radiating warmth by his side. _

_ Swallowing deeply, Jon glanced over his shoulder just as the green and bronze dragon slowly lowered its head to his eye level. _

_ “This is Rhaegal,” Daenerys introduced him to the smaller but still impressively large beast. “Named after my brother Rhaegar, _your father_.” _

_ Jon thought it natural to carefully extend his hand and rub the softer part of the beast's snout. _

_ A surprised chuckle escaped his lips when the dragon purred, almost knocking him off his feet as he nuzzled into his palm. _

_ It wasn’t as strong as what he had with Ghost, but Jon felt an easy kinship bloom between him and the dragon. _

* * *

“It’s beautiful,” Daenerys commented as Winterfell appeared on the horizon. 

“And warmer, within its walls,” Tyrion Lannister added, his teeth clacking.

Jon had momentarily been impressed that his southern aunt had so easily taken to the cold climate of the North, but he then had remembered that she was just like him, with blood running hot enough in her veins that she was shielded from the harsh elements.

So was Lady Melisandre, whom Jon had sent directly to the Wall when they had arrived at White Harbor.

Jon was aware that the red priestess was a powerful ally in the war against the Night King, but he had banished her from Winterfell, and had no intention to forgive her crimes to lift that banishment. The red woman hadn’t complained about his decision, and had ridden alone towards Castle Black.

The flap of wings made the four riders look up—Lord Varys had been silent since their ride had started, bundled up in thick layers of furs—and after a second of confusion Jon extended his arm to receive the crow he knew was sent by his brother.

“Ravens delivering messages in the middle of nowhere?” Daenerys questioned, dumbfounded.

“That’s a crow, actually,” her Hand corrected her.

Jon felt the dwarf’s eyes on him as he silently gasped at the news sent by Bran.

Sansa was now Queen of _ three kingdoms, _having taken over the Riverlands in his absence. 

The prince wondered how the information would affect the negotiations between his cousin and his aunt.

“What does it say?” Daenerys inquired carefully.

“Her Grace Queen Sansa is ready to receive us,” he selectively shared the content of the message. “A feast is planned for the full moon.”

“That’s in a sennight,” Tyrion Lannister pointed out with narrowed eyes. “Have things changed? Do we now have _time_ before the Night King and his army of the dead invades?”

“I look forward to spending time with Queen Sansa,” the dragon queen countered diplomatically. 

“And I’m sure that it will take time for all military leaders to be heard about their war strategies, whether or not they are implemented,” Lord Varys’ muffled voice offered.

The rest of the ride to Winterfell was spent in relative silence, only interrupted by the mild panic among the few Dothraki bloodriders that had come along when Ghost joined the retinue.

Maybe it was his urge to remind Daenerys that he also had Stark blood—she insisted on calling him ‘Jaehaerys’ or ‘nephew’—but Jon gave into the impulse to slide off his horse and onto his furry companion’s back once he’d secured his sword belt on his saddle.

He’d never done it before, and while he wasn’t fully confident riding without a saddle or reins, there was a sense of freedom and familiarity to feeling Ghost all around him.

Even without Jon’s instruction, the direwolf kept a sedate pace, allowing the rest of the riders to keep up with the Prince of Winterfell—a contrast to Daenerys’ dragons, who had left them behind hours ago.

Jon hoped that he did look like the worthy heir to Queen Sansa, the She-Wolf, when he entered the South Gate ahead of Daenerys’ retinue. He was wearing a black and red jerkin, thankfully covered by his Stark fur coat, and while most people wouldn’t notice it, he knew that _ Sansa _ would eventually.

Sansa, who was standing as regal as ever, her mere presence making both Jon's burning heart and wretched soul sing in relief and joy. She stood in her one-sided black feather cloak wrapped over a light grey armored dress—Jon was about to sigh in relief at the lack of Tully colors on her attire when he noticed the embroidery on her left sleeve: bird wings and fish tails—and her blue eyes widened slightly at the sight of him on his direwolf.

The returned prince didn’t have time to wonder whether or not she was glad to see him as he was forced to quickly dismount Ghost in order to embrace Arya, who carelessly flung herself at him.

“Those dragons are amazing” his little sister whispered excitedly before giving him room to breathe.

Jon chuckled, resisting the urge to ruffle her hair when he finally noticed the other people who had gathered to welcome him back home—or to satisfy their curiosity about the dragon queen before the feast.

Lord Manderly, Lord Royce, Lady Mormont, Tormund; Bran and Meera on Sansa’s left; and of course Lady Brienne and Podrick standing half a step behind Sansa. But there were also new faces, notably four women standing around Lyanna Mormont—could they be her older sisters, rumored to have disappeared at sea?

Jon waited until Arya reclaimed her spot on Sansa’s right side to drop his left knee onto the snow, his eyes not leaving Sansa who had recovered her neutral expression.

“Your Grace,” he greeted solemnly, his voice carrying through the courtyard. “I have returned successful from my mission.”

“It is good to have you home, Prince Jon,” Sansa greeted back with a fond smile, and in a moment of madness the young man expected his queen to embrace him as tightly as she had a few moons ago at Castle Black.

Instead, she simply instructed him to rise, right as Daenerys approached, Lord Tyrion on her right, Lord Varys and Lady Missandei at her heels.

“Queen Sansa, this is Queen Daenerys Targaryen,” Jon introduced the two queens as he took half a step back to be level with his aunt, making sure to avoid superfluous titles. “And her Hand, Lord Tyrion Lannister.”

“A Targaryen and a Lannister in the North,” Lyanna Mormont commented with her high but reproachful tone.

“Aye, come in good faith to ally themselves to our army,” Jon quickly reminded the young girl to spare Sansa the chore of appeasing the fearsome little She-Bear, though one of the women by her side seemed ready to reprimand her. “To fight against the Night King, to protect humanity against the greatest enemy it has faced.”

The heir prince felt more than saw Daenerys hold her head high, her short stature still commanding respect and admiration with her pale skin and paler hair contrasting with her black cloak, the overlining fur of its hood dyed the same red as Ghost’s eyes.

“Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace,” Sansa greeted with a polite nod. “And welcome back, Lord Tyrion. I am sure that your swift travels were trying. Your quarters have been prepared, and accommodations will be made for your troops once we ascertain where your dragons will rest, as they are currently occupying much needed campsite.”

“My apologies for my children,” the mother of dragons replied, her tone suspiciously pleasant to Jon’s ears. “I will relocate them as soon as Jaehaerys shows me a better spot to settle them.”

“Jaehaerys?” Lord Manderly repeated curiously as Jon’s heart dropped into his guts. “Who is that?”

The Prince of Winterfell fought a blush when Sansa momentarily glared at him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!
> 
> Happy holidays/end of the year celebrations everyone! This year was a let down for many of us as far as the GoT/ASoIaF franchise is concerned: the show's season finale was disappointing, and "The Winds of Winter" still hasn't been published.
> 
> But this fandom is amazing and I'm super excited to be able to keep my passion for this universe alive through this fic and discussions with other fans. Thank you for reading my work and for leaving feedback!  
Best wishes to all for 2020!


	16. The Queen of Upper Westeros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon face the Council about his true identity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1.5 of the Winterfell Drama! Making clear where Jon stands before moving onto Sansa and Daenerys' "negotiations".

“She did _ what_?” Sansa asked as she braced herself against her desk, her legs threatening to give out.

Jon, _ her _ Jon, being sentenced to death by this foreign queen, this Targaryen conqueror who’d had the gall to call him Jaehaerys, to arrive in _ their home _ and seed chaos in Sansa’s court.

Her council had given her an hour to explain ‘the meaning of this, Your Grace.’

“I’m going to kill her,” Arya announced as she made to step out of Sansa’s solar.

“No!” Bran, Jon and Sansa objected in unison.

“We need her dragons!” Jon hissed, but Arya merely frowned at Bran.

“Can’t you control them?” she questioned her younger brother.

“I don’t know, and I’d rather not invest energy on changing into the skin of creatures from Old Valyria,” the Three-Eyed-Raven answered evenly. “Their magic is different from that of the Old Gods.”

“Maybe I can control the dragons if I wear her face…_ after _ I kill her,” the northern princess speculated with a shrug.

“You will _ not _ ,” Sansa insisted, appalled. “Whatever ‘wearing her face’ means…No, Arya, I _ don’t _ wish to know, not now,” she added quickly when it looked like her sister wanted to give her a lesson on the skills she’d acquired in Braavos.

The Queen in the North didn’t have time for Arya’s eccentricity, not when she was trying her best not to break down at the news that Jon had almost been _ murdered _ by his own aunt, after he’d told her that he was in fact her _ family_.

_ What kind of woman, what kind of _ human being _ is she? _ she wondered as she stared at Jon, maybe too hard, but she had to make sure that he was okay, that he was _ safe_. 

He truly didn’t look like he’d been hurt at all, in fact he looked like a proper Targaryen prince now that he’d taken off his fur cloak. That jerkin and those breaches, and were those _ dragons _ emblazoned on the side of his boots?

“Do we actually _ still _ need her dragons?” the red-haired queen asked Bran. “Now that we have additional soldiers _ and _ dragonglass…”

"Additional soldiers from the Riverlands,” Jon specified. “Baelish divulged your plan to take over the Riverlands to Daenerys. Sansa, _ your Hand _ committed treason. He put me at odds with my aunt, made her believe that I wanted to usurp her throne—”

“The _ Essosi _ queen thought that you wanted to become king of Dragons Bay?” Sansa countered immediately, irritated by Jon’s defense of his estranged aunt.

“What? No!” the heir prince replied, momentarily surprised by her question.

At least he had the decency to look apologetic when he understood her point.

“I’ll deal with Littlefinger soon enough,” the Queen in the North promised. 

She couldn’t believe that the conniving man had walked himself into his own execution. What had come over him, to involve the Mad King’s daughter into his plan to murder Jon? 

A plan that Sansa should’ve seen coming. She’d foolishly assumed that Petyr would never risk Jon’s safety while on a diplomatic mission, especially when he had to deal with other prominent players of the game like Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys.

She’d been _ wrong_, and Jon had almost paid the ultimate price for her carelessness.

A loud gasp made everyone stare at Bran, whose eyes turned momentarily white.

He blinked back to normal after tense seconds, then looked around the room with a short smile.

“They’re coming,” he announced cryptically.

“Who?” both Jon and Arya questioned him ahead of Sansa.

“The Hound,” the Three-Eyed-Raven started, making both of his sisters gasp.

“You said that you left him for dead,” the queen recalled as she stared at her younger sister. “That he lost his duel against Lady Brienne.”

“Left for dead, but clearly he didn’t die,” Arya merely shrugged. “Or if he did, he came back to life,” she added with a playful smirk directed at Jon.

“Yes, he was brought back by Thoros of Myr,” Bran confirmed with a nod. “They’re coming together. Along with the blacksmith.”

Sansa blinked at Arya’s speechlessness. Very little seemed to shock the youngest Stark woman, nowadays, so she paid attention to her siblings’ exchange.

“Gendry is _alive_?” Arya asked, her voice small, and the queen in the North made a note to remember the name of that blacksmith.

“He’ll be able to make your special weapon,” Bran informed his dark-haired sister. “And he’ll help the other blacksmiths make arrowheads from dragonglass.” he added, addressing Jon this time. “Just now, Lord Manderly’s blacksmith reported that the ore seems too brittle for weapons finer than shortswords.”

“Thank you Bran,” Jon replied with a smile.

Sansa refocused on the reason for their impromptu meeting.

“So we do_ not_, in fact, need dragons to win this war, do we?” she reiterated her question. “I can put Daenerys Targaryen on trial for trying to kill _ my heir_?”

“Sansa,” Jon reprimanded softly.

“_Don’t _ ‘Sansa’ me, Jon!” she almost shouted back, finally able to straighten to her full height without the need to hold onto something. 

“What message will I send to my people if I let walk free the woman who attempted to murder my own _ heir_, my own _ brother_?”

“Before nightfall, everyone will know that I’m just your _ cousin_!” Jon pointed out. “That I’m a _ Targaryen _ just like Daenerys! Your Council will demand that you choose another heir the second we tell them about my parentage. No one will care about me then.”

“Half of the members of my Council were eager to name you _ their king,_” the queen in the North recounted sharply. “I will not heed the opinions of _ hypocrites_, not anymore. I have had enough with Littlefinger. And I cannot sentence my own Hand for conspiring your murder, then pardon the one who effectively attempted the murder herself! That is not justice!”

“There is no justice in the world,” Bran said flatly. “Not unless we make it.” 

It took a few seconds for Sansa to realize that her brother was quoting words that Baelish had told her privately almost a year ago.

Sometimes Bran’s greensight evoked a deep sense of _ unease _ in Sansa. The knowledge that he could look into any of her most humiliating moments made her uncomfortable.

“You’re the queen in the North, Sansa” Jon reminded her. “Whatever sentence you decide on for both Baelish and the dragon queen _will be_ considered justice. The Lords and Ladies know that the survival of your people is your priority, that if you pardon Daenerys Targaryen it will be solely for the sake of our alliance with her. We _ need _ her dragons. However many new soldiers we have, it’s still not enough to directly face the overwhelming numbers of the Night King’s army.”

Sansa stared at him, then looked at Arya and Bran. _Her family._ The most important people to her in the entire world were all in this room. The Night King could come and kill everyone else in Westeros, and she wouldn’t care much.

But Sansa had sworn an oath to protect _ all _of her people, from the North and the Vale, and now from the Riverlands too.

She looked to Bran, to _ The Three-Eyed-Raven_.

Her brother looked back and nodded. His eyes shone with a wisdom beyond his years. Those eyes had seen all of Westeros’ history, and had determined that Jon was a key player in the war against the Night King—something that Sansa didn’t need magic to believe in. 

“You said that the dragon queen wants to negotiate the terms of our alliance with me, personally?” she asked her cousin after letting out a long sigh.

“Yes,” he answered carefully. “Though I cannot fathom what she could ask for.”

“I’ll let you know,” Sansa promised with a nod. “I will not seal this alliance without _your_ input, Jon. You’re the general of my army, you’re my heir. You’re my…”

She took a deep breath before speaking again.

“You’re my _ cousin_,” she added, ignoring Arya’s frown, “you’re _ family_. You’re the one who helped me get our home back. You’re the one who crowned me. _ The North remembers_. For the same reason it cannot blindly trust Daenerys Targaryen because of the crimes her family has committed against ours, it cannot ignore the fact that you were raised within these walls as _ Lord Stark’s natural son_, that you’re amongst the best swords in Westeros. We need _ you _to win the Great War. So if you say that we need Daenerys Targaryen’s dragons to ensure minimal losses, I’ll allow her to stay as our esteemed guest.”

_ Wiser than Father, more protective than Mother, braver than Robb, more hopeful than Rickon. _

“But she will_ pay _ for what she did to you, one way or another,” Sansa declared solemnly. “A trial isn’t the only thing I can demand as retribution.”

Jon nodded, giving her a small smile.

“Is Lord Reed ready to meet the Council?” the Queen in the North asked her little brother.

“Meera should already be in the Great Hall with him,” Bran confirmed.

Sansa sighed before looking back to Jon.

“Are you ready?” she asked him softly, feeling sad for him.

All his life, he had wanted to be worthy of the Stark name, yet there he was, about to be presented to the leaders of the North and the Vale—Sansa ought to open a new position in her Council for a riverman—as Jaehaerys Targaryen, legitimate son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen.

* * *

“...and my liege lord Eddard Stark swore me to secrecy concerning the parentage of his nephew, Jaehaerys Targaryen, whom he renamed Jon in honor of his foster Lord Jon Arryn of the Eyrie,” Lord Reed concluded his recount of Ned Stark’s return from the Tower of Joy. 

The Lord of Greywater Watch was standing in front of the Council table, which truly was just a row of benches where the leaders of the tripartite kingdom sat in the room formerly used as Lady Stark’s sitting room, placed adjacent to the crude but large chair occupied by the queen in the North. 

For a moment, all members of Sansa’s Council were speechless:

Lord Wyman Manderly, Master of Coin; Lady Lyra Mormont, Master of Ships, who had returned from sea along with her other sisters Dacey, Alysanne and Jorelle after being thought defeated by a pirate fleet; Lord Yohn Royce, Master of Laws; Arthor son of Flynn, Tolenna daughter of Orys, and Old Milla, heralds of the smallfolk from White Harbor, Barrowtown and Winter Town—heralds of the smallfolk from the Vale and the Riverlands were yet to be elected—Tormund Giantsbane, representative of the Free Folk; Maester Wolkan, acting Grand Maester until the arrival of the one appointed by the Citadel; Lady Brienne, Commander of the Queensguard.

And Jon Snow, Heir to the throne and General of the tripartite army, whom to Sansa’s delight was standing proud by Lord Howland, his chin lifted as he stared at the people who thought they could decide his fate.

“A dragon disguised as a direwolf,” Lord Manderly then commented disapprovingly, “a southerner passing for one of us!”

“Not all of _ us _ are northerners, my lord,” Lord Royce quickly reminded him. “Her Grace Sansa is queen to _ Upper Westeros_, which includes the North, the Vale and the Riverlands. Only one of those three regions is north of the Neck.”

“And the little crow has been to the _ true _ North,” Tormund pointed out with a shrug, “he’s more of a northerner than any other one of you kneelers.”

“It doesn’t matter where he was born or who his sire was,” Lady Lyra asserted in her booming voice. “He was _ raised _ as a direwolf, he _ is _ one! Did you not see the _ beast _ he was riding when he came through the gate?”

Sansa was pleased to count the daughters of the legendary Maege Mormont as members of her court. Dacey and Lyra were taller than her, and though a great warrior Alysanne was also an elegant lady and a talented seamstress, her skills rivaling Sansa’s. 

Just like their youngest sister Lyanna, the Mormont women were outspoken and assertive, which was expected as Bear Island had a long history of women leading people of their own right. They were refreshingly different from most southern ladies, and the queen in the North felt more secure in her reign knowing that she wasn’t the only powerful woman in the tripartite kingdom—Sansa was thinking of personally inviting Lady Anya Waynwood to accompany Robin in order to attend Lord Baelish’s trial.

“What _ everyone _ has seen is three dragons soaring our skies, milady,” Arthor spoke up carefully as he leaned over to look at Lady Mormont, then his gaze flicked to Jon before landing on Sansa. “Rumors say that the Targaryen woman has come to usurp you, Your Grace, just like her ancestor did our king of old when the Targaryens conquered Westeros. They say that His Grace Prince Jon conspired against his sister because he wanted to be Lord of Winterfell…”

“That is not the case, Arthor,” Sansa intervened before Jon decided to defend himself. “I gave permission to Prince Jon to negotiate _ an alliance _with Daenerys Targaryen so that she would fight with us against the army of the dead. As you may know, fire is one of the best weapons against those awful creatures, so her dragons would be a great asset to our army.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” the man, a Hornwood carpenter who had lost an arm in the battle against Ramsay, quickly apologized. “I do not hold such thoughts myself, I am just reporting the news that traveled with His Grace from White Harbor, Your Grace.”

“Thank you for your report Arthor,” the young queen replied calmly. “That is exactly what this Council has appointed you to do. We are grateful for your service.”

“You are truly your father’s daughter, Sansa Stark,” Old Milla, the mother of a fur trader, fondly noted. “Lord Stark always toured the lands to hear directly from us smallfolk, to make sure that those who couldn’t make it to the castle were still heard. When you were Lady Bolton, we feared that you did not care for us as you never left Winterfell, but now we know that we were mistaken. I, for one, will gladly remind any idiot in Winter Town that Jon Snow was the one who returned you to Winterfell as a _ Stark_, who was your sword when you fought the turncoats to restore honor in the lands. _ The North remembers_.”

Sansa struggled not to beam with pride and gratitude at hearing words so similar to those she had spoken to Jon herself. The queen didn’t mind the elderly woman’s omission of her and Jon’s titles. Milla reminded her of Old Nan, who often called anyone who wasn’t the Lord or Lady of Winterfell ‘child’.

“Thank you for your faith in us,” Sansa told the representative, making sure to direct a brief but sharp look at Lord Manderly, who shifted in his seat.

“Jon,” she called out, her neutral expression hiding the thrill coursing her body at the sight of her cousin. 

While she resented the dragon queen for dressing Jon in Targaryen colors, the Queen in the North had to admit that they looked good on him. She’d fleetingly noted that black suited the former Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, but the additional red highlights made him look…_ Dashing_. 

“You yourself did not know of your parentage until recently,” Sansa declared as she stood slowly, but remained by her chair. “Now that you know who your true parents are, do you wish to declare for House Targaryen?”

The northern queen felt slightly guilty for not warning him about that question, but she wanted his response to be sincere, she wanted the members of her Council to see for themselves that Jon genuinely cared for the North.

“Sans—Your Grace,” he started quietly, but caught himself when he eyed the curious Council members.

“The North is _ my home_,” he told them solemnly. “It is part of me, which is why I volunteered to serve in the Night’s Watch all those years ago. I was the shield guarding the realms of men, the watcher on the walls. I watched, and I _ saw _ the enemy of all men, a creature who wants to destroy all life in Westeros. I helped as many Free Folk get away from his reach, thinking that the Wall could keep us all safe. I know now that it cannot.”

Sansa almost nodded in approval at the pause he took, letting his words sink in.

“My watch ended _ brutally _ when I was betrayed by my own brothers at Castle Black, and when it happened I had the ridiculous idea to flee the North, to go somewhere warm where the burdens of leadership would not weigh me down,” Jon informed them.

Then he fully turned towards Sansa, and she almost gasped at the intense earnestness of his gaze as he spoke again.

“Had you not sought my help to restore your house in Winterfell and to restore honor in the North, Your Grace, I do not know where I would be today. I was a bastard with nothing to my name, and the order I had sworn my life to had rejected me. I thought myself alone in a world that I knew was threatened by an enemy no one was aware of south of the Wall.”

Sansa clasped her hands together to prevent them from shaking as her cousin took deliberate steps towards her.

“Then you came to Castle Black, and reminded me that I had _ family_, that I had a _ home_, the home Lord Eddard Stark gave me as a babe to keep me safe, to honor the promise he made to my mother Lyanna Stark.”

The ring of Longclaw’s blade being drawn out of its scabbard was deafening in the silence that had descended in the room.

“My watch at the Wall has ended, but when you asked me to help you retake Winterfell, Sansa, I made a new vow to you in my heart, _ a silent vow_, which I wish to renew publicly today, in front of your Council…If it pleases your Grace.”

As her heart tried to escape her chest, the queen in the North vaguely wondered if he’d let her name slip deliberately.

“You may proceed,” she enunciated carefully, intelligibly, after glancing at the members of her Council, who looked on with interest and mild surprise, but thankfully the Queen in the North could not discern any sign of disapproval on any of the nine faces present in this moment.

A moment similar to the stories Sansa loved to read about when she had been a stupid little girl.

Just like in the courtyard a mere hour ago, Jon held her gaze as he dropped to his knee, presenting his sword.

“I, Jon Snow, born Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, pledge my allegiance to Your Grace Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Queen in the North, ruler of the North, the Vale and the Riverlands. I swear on my life to serve your crown in any capacity you see fit, to shield your back, and keep your counsel, and strike anyone who would harm you or threaten your reign. You are my queen, from this day, until my last day.”

Sansa swallowed, the sound awfully loud to her ears, willing the flush of her blood not to go above her covered neck.

Jon’s vows did not follow after any other, but what it lacked in tradition it made up for in its finality.

He’d just sworn his entire life to Sansa, the way a knight would to a monarch. He’d even gone further than that by implying that Sansa’s death would not release him from this vows.

The queen in the North hoped that her cousin’s last words, ‘until my last day’ would remind Lord Royce, the only southerner in the audience, of Lyanna Mormont’s speech when she had proposed to crown Jon. Otherwise, he might note that those four words were part of southern _ wedding vows_.

Jon could not possibly know that, could he? Sansa was hearing what her twisted heart wanted to hear. And her eyes were seeing love in Jon’s dark gaze where only familial affection resided in it.

And when Sansa reached for the tip of his gloved fingers with hers, she definitely imagined the frisson that coursed through them both before she replied to his vow.

“I, Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Queen in the North, ruler of the North, the Vale and the Riverlands, appoint you, Jon Snow of House Stark, born Jaehaerys Targaryen, heir to my throne and general of my army. I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. From this day until my last, I will honor this vow. This I swear by the old gods and the new. Arise.”

She slowly slipped her hand underneath Jon’s, and he rose back to his feet when she lightly pulled him up. She felt a blush finally make it to her cheeks when his eyes remained on hers even as he sheathed his Valyrian blade.

“Now that the case of my heir’s identity is cleared out,” Sansa announced solemnly as she took a step forward to be level with Jon when he turned around to face the Council, “let us discuss the conditions of our alliance with the dragon queen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always appreciated. It's still December 31 for me, but Happy New Year everyone! Best wishes for 2020! 
> 
> Bran's POV is next. I think that it's time I make full use of his greensight, because getting all the reunions and dialogues I need to happen in chapter 17 is difficult to do concisely through a regular single POV.


	17. A Skin Changer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Sansa open the negotiations; the Lannister brothers reunite; Meera wears a dress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the summary suggests, nothing much actually happens in this chapter. I was hoping to post this along with the more eventful chapter 18, but I still need to edit it, and I want to fulfill my promise of posting twice a month.

“You had better aim when you were nine years old,” Bran noted neutrally as he saw Arya's arrow miss the target by several inches for the third time in a row.

“Exactly!” she replied harshly, and when he saw her breath release in the cold air Bran realized that she’d been holding it to shoot the last three arrows.

“Why are you holding your breath?” the crippled prince inquired as he felt a pull from one of his crows.

He focused on it and saw Daenerys Targaryen leaving the Guest Hall, escorted by Podrick Payne, most likely headed towards Sansa’s solar in the Great Keep.

“...never aim. That my eyes know where the arrow is supposed to go. And if I don’t hold my breath my arrow flies off-target. ‘Never hold, never aim’? That’s horseshit,” Arya was saying as the Three-Eyed-Raven returned to his own sight. 

Was it horshit? Meera repeatedly instructed Bran to keep his eyes on the target and not to worry so much on making sure that the arrowhead was pointing at the right angle. She also advised him to keep his hold very loose so his arms could easily follow his eyes’ movement.

“Try again,” Bran encouraged as he called onto a crow. “Don’t hold, not even your breath.”

“_You’re _ trying to give _ me _ archery lessons?” his sister talked back with mock outrage, but she grabbed a new arrow all the same.

She held its tail against the bowstring, held her elbow high, drew the string and released it before she pulled it taught, never once looking anywhere but at her target. 

The arrow hit the center of the straw man’s head.

“Holy shit,” the princess exclaimed loudly, and thankfully they were in the godswood and not on the training grounds were other people could hear the princess of Winterfell swear.

“Not _ horse _ shit, then,” Bran replied playfully, returning Arya’s wide grin.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” he added when his crow landed right outside the window of Sansa’s solar.

“That’s what you _ always _ say,” his sister recalled with narrow eyes before directed her gaze to an approaching Meera, who had to be finished showing new recruits how to safely wield shortswords. “I’ll leave you with Meera if you take too long,” she decided. “I want to be there when Gendry arrives.”

Bran rolled his eyes in mock annoyance before they rolled back in their sockets as he borrowed the crow’s senses.

The air was warmer under the bird’s feathers, though random gusts of winds forced it to occasionally hop on its legs to keep its perch on the window.

* * *

_ Sansa was standing at her desk, her feather cloak draped over her chair, piles of scrolls neatly stacked on one corner of the sturdy wooden surface, a tray holding two chalices and a cask of wine on the other. Two blank sheets of parchment were spread out next to the red-haired queen’s slightly shaky hand, a quill, an unlit candle next to a block of hardened wax, and the seal stamp of House Stark at the ready. _

_ Across the window, the crow heard the confident knock at the door that Bran knew was from Brienne of Tarth. _

_ “Yes,” the queen in the North responded steadily, her face adopting a serene mask as the lady knight stepped inside the solar, leaving the door slightly ajar. _

_ “Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen to see you, Your Grace,” the tall woman announced. _

_ “Let her in, thank you Brienne and Podrick,” Sansa replied pleasantly. _

_ The tension of the northern queen’s shoulders might have escaped a human eye, but it was obvious enough through the gaze of the crow when the shorter, white-haired queen was escorted into the room. _

_ The dragon queen glanced around her before pasting a smile on her face as her gaze locked onto the She-Wolf. _

_ “Thank you for receiving me so soon, Your Grace,” Daenerys Targaryen started, her voice clear and almost melodious. “I imagine that you must be busy running the castle, preparing for the arrival of yet more troops…From _ the Riverlands_, if I heard right.” _

_ “Running the castle is my steward’s duty,“ Sansa informed the formerly exiled Westerosi woman. “I am the _ queen _ of Upper Westeros. I am busy _ ruling _ the three regions of my kingdom.” _

_ A faint blush rose to the dragon queen’s cheeks, and she offered a curt nod of apology, or acknowledgement. _

_ “I have much to learn in order to be a good queen for Westeros myself,” the Targaryen woman admitted as she pointedly stared at one of the armchairs placed across Sansa’s desk. _

_ “Please have a seat, Your Grace,” the northern queen granted with a smooth hand gesture. _

_ The white-haired queen elegantly settled on the chair, her knees angled outwards as her arms draped over the armrest as if she were on a throne. _

_ “May I speak freely, Your Grace?” Daenerys Targaryen asked the queen in the North after the latter took her own seat. _

_ The two queens exchanged unblinking stares during the few heartbeats it took for the youngest one to answer the older’s request. _

_ “You may,” Sansa allowed with a lift of her chin. _

_ “I did not know much about you, Sansa Stark,” the dragon queen admitted in a lighter tone as she leaned forward in her seat, one hand leaving her chair to skim the sturdy wood of the desk. _

_ “In fact, until I received the news that you had become the first queen in the North, I had a very poor image of noblewomen in Westeros. To my knowledge, all were meek and unassuming, just as I believed was the proper way to be when I was much younger.” _

_ “But the more I learned about you, from Lord Tyrion and Varys,” the dragon queen continued, her voice going soft, “the more I realized how alike you and I are. We grew up thinking that we’d be queens, not of our own rights, but as the wives of men destined to have absolute power over us. We thought ourselves only good to give many healthy children to our kings and husbands.” _

_ “You and I both learned the brutal truth that this world is full of greedy men who would abuse our bodies and exploit the prestige of our names to gain power,” the white-haired woman said with a sharper tone. “We’ve both been betrayed, not just by strangers, but by our closest advisors, by our own trueborn brothers…” _

_ The gloved hand on the desk briefly balled into a fist, and the Targaryen queen took a deep breath before resuming her speech. _

_ “We’ve been married against our wills, in your case more than once. We’ve had to smile and kowtow to traitors, to people who would’ve killed us at the first given opportunity, people who _ did _ try to kill us. We’ve both made numerous powerful enemies.” _

_ Daenerys Targaryen leaned back into her chair, her shoulders relaxing as she waved between her and her northern counterpart. _

_ “Yet here we both are, queens in our own rights. We’ve survived and defeated many of those who harmed us. We’ve taken power from men when the world told us that we were supposed to submit to them. I had not heard much about you, Sansa Stark, but now that I know who you are, I cannot help but think that it is not mere coincidence that our paths, so uncannily similar, have finally crossed. The Targaryens and the Starks, whose conflict once plunged Westeros into a war that created political instability in the realms, have finally come together through none other than the secret child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Jaehaerys Targaryen, _my_ nephew and _your _cousin, have united us for a war to save humanity from a terrible foe. A war we must fight and _win_ to preserve life itself in the realms. But I do not wish for our alliance to stop after we’ve defeated the Night King, Your Grace.” _

_ The short queen straighten her back and smiled widely at the taller one. _

_ “I wish for the both of us to establish the most prosperous era of Westeros,” she proposed. “You, the queen in the North, and I the queen in the South. I want us to bring the era of wars and petty squabbling that the kings, _ the men _ before us brought upon these lands, to an end. When I finally embraced my destiny to rule with my own power, I swore a vow to break the wheel of oppression that crushes the commoners while the nobles stab each other’s backs. I knew my quest to be a heavy burden, but back then I thought myself alone in the world, with no family and no ally of equal standing. Today I find myself with a nephew and the most fortuitous ally I could wish for.” _

_ She chuckled, shaking her white-haired head slowly as her cheeks reddened slightly. _

_ “You’ve granted me permission to speak freely, so I must admit that, were heirs not a concern to both our reigns, I would ask you to marry me myself, Your Grace,” the dragon queen admitted. _

_ “I’ve never had any concerns about my heirs, Your Grace,” Sansa corrected her guest in a smooth but cold voice. _

_ “In fact, you are the first person to ever threaten _ my reign _ by attempting to harm Jon, Daenerys Targaryen,” the red-haired queen pointed out as she interlaced her hands, her elbows resting on the armchair. _

_ “I…I don’t—I don’t understand,” the dragon queen replied quietly. _

_ “Did you not understand the consequences of condemning a prince of Westeros to death by dragon fire, Your Grace?” Sansa questioned. “Did you not refuse to accept my crown as legitimate and did you not ask Jon to bend the knee to you as the sole queen of Westeros, as ‘ _ the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful queen of the Andals and the First Men, protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains?_’” _

_ “That was before…” Daenerys Targaryen started defending herself, but the Stark queen demanded silence with a sharp flap of her hand. _

_ “Before your claim to the Iron Throne was contested,” Queen Sansa completed the sentence. “Before you finally accepted to spare a little of your vast resources to help _ my army _ protect the Seven Kingdoms from the Night King; before Jon survived the flames of your dragon; before you could hear what your advisors don’t have the courage to tell you, but as someone who has been in many parts of Westeros, I can tell you, Your Grace, that the commoners do not need you to free them from oppression. There are _ no slaves _ on this side of the Narrow Sea, _ Khaleesi_.” _

_ The dragon queen’s face had gradually turned red, and when Sansa had finished her much shorter speech, the Essosi queen stood abruptly from her seat. _

_ “Yes, I was _wrong_ to harm Jaehaerys, to order the death of the man who claimed blood ties with me,” she admitted heatedly. “I will always regret my action against my nephew, you must believe me, Your Grace. Jaehaerys himself has already forgiven me—” _

_ “Jon is a good man,” Sansa cut her off as she stood from her seat more calmly, clasping her hands in front of her. “He has dedicated his life to serve the realm since he was but a boy. He would see past anyone’s crime to guarantee the survival of humankind. And so, as a man, he forgave your attempt to his life.” _

_ The red-haired queen slowly pushed one of the blank pieces of parchment as well as the quill towards the white-haired queen. _

_“I trust that you understand that as a queen, _I cannot_ overlook an attempt to _my heir’s life_, not even by another queen who claims to come to me as an ally,” Sansa asserted._

_ “Jaehaerys cannot be _ your _ heir, he’s a _ Targaryen_!” the dragon queen argued vehemently. _

_ “He’s already pledged himself to my crown in front of my Council,” the She-Wolf countered. _

_ “You have a trueborn brother and a trueborn sister!” Daenerys Targaryen reminded. “Until I met Jaehaerys, I had no prospect for an heir. I am barren, my dragons are the only children I will ever have, and they will outlive me. _ They _ will need Targaryen riders to control them!” _

_ The dragon queen’s voice had become shaky, and her eyes misted over as she grabbed onto one of Sansa’s hands, locking it between her own two hands. _

_ “Please forgive me, Sansa—may I call you Sansa? We are indirectly family, after all. For so long I _ had to be _ ruthless because I had no one to count on but _ myself_. Unlike you, I did not grow up with a large, loving family, I did not have powerful allies who would help me survive my enemies. I deeply regret hurting Jae—Jon, truly I do. I beg you for a chance to prove myself, not just as an ally but as _ a friend_. You and I could do so much good in both Essos and Westeros, Your Grace. We can change the world for the better. Please, don’t let a moment of foolishness on my part ruin what could be the greatest alliance the realms could witness.” _

_ “You still believe that Westeros needs your help, after everything that I just said?” the queen in the North questioned skeptically, trying and failing to retrieve her hand from the other queen’s grip. _

_ “There is no slavery in Westeros, but there is _ suffering_,” the dragon queen pointed out. “There is famine and there is sickness. Once we defeat the Night King, we’ll still have to defeat Cersei—she is enemy to us _ both_, I know how much you hate her, please tell me that you will fight with me against the Lannisters!” _

_ “I will,” Sansa promised with a slow nod. _

_ “Even after we defeat Cersei, we will have to work hard to restore prosperity in the realms,” the shorter queen suggested. “These lands have seen so many wars in the past few decades, Your Grace. Assuring that every single one of your subjects is fed and has a roof will be a challenge. Winter has come, and I know that the North knows how to survive the harsh weather, but you are not just the queen of the North, Sansa Stark, you also have subjects from the South to care for. I can help you feed _ everyone._ As you said yourself my resources are vast, I can provide food and clothing and medicine…” _

_ “I was about to ask for just that in compensation for Jon’s trouble,” Sansa admitted as she glanced at the blank scrolls. _

_ The dragon queen opened her mouth to reply, but bit her lips instead, frowning as she held the gaze of the other queen, as she kept her hand between hers. _

_ Then she looked down at the blank piece of paper. _

_ “How much?” the Essosi queen questioned. _

_ “However much you can spare,” the queen of Upper Westeros replied. “My Council could confer with Lord Tyrion on the details.” _

_ “I would pay any price to earn your forgiveness, Queen Sansa,” the white-haired queen promised. “But I would pay even more for a chance to build a true legacy of my own. I need an heir and I need a guarantee that you will not forsake me after the war against the army of the dead is won.” _

_ “You have my word that I will support you against Cersei,” the red-haired queen asserted, frowning when the dragon queen shook her head. _

_ “I might have a lot to learn about Westerosi politics, but one thing I know for sure is that the strongest alliances were built on the union of multiple houses…Through marriages.” _

_ Sansa’s eyes searched the other woman’s, then she sharply pulled her hand away from hers. _

_ “I will _ not _ marry again,” the queen in the North declared coldly. “I am the queen of Upper Westeros and I will not share my rule with yet another husband.” _

_ “I would never ask that of you, of course not,” Daenerys Targaryen claimed with a reassuring smile. “And technically, it wouldn’t be _ another _ husband…You never annulled your marriage to Lord Tyrion.” _

_ “You want me to renew my marriage to a _ Lannister_,” the red-haired queen reiterated with a scoff. “This jest is of very poor taste, Your Grace.” _

_ “Tyrion would gladly give away his name,” the white-haired queen argued. “although you could take advantage of it to secure ties to the Westerlands, just as I would have ties to the North through Jon. That way, our kingdoms would forever be intertwined. Jon would marry one of the Sand Snakes—I know, an unfortunate name—to strengthen my ties to Dorne, and his children would be my heirs. You need not consummate your marriage with Lord Tyrion, Your Grace. I imagine that he would be satisfied as long as you allowed him a mistress or two, and plenty of wine. You could name one of Prince Brandon or Princess Arya’s children your heir—” _

_ “We must find another way to seal our alliance,” Sansa objected. “Jon has _ sworn _ his life to me, and although I would not stop him if he later wished to stay with you in King’s Landing, I want him to have a say in these negotiations.” _

_ “Sworn to you?” Daenerys Targaryen echoed, blinking in confusion. “Since when are heirs _ sworn _ to their predecessors?” _

_ The silent, stoic expression that Sansa gave in response to the question made the dragon queen frown. _

_ “Alright. I agree to having Jon join us, but only if Tyrion does as well,” she conceded. _

_ “Let the four of us convene tomorrow at the same time, then,” the queen in the North decided as she once again pushed the blank scroll towards her guest._

* * *

Bran returned to his body, blinking at the sight of Meera collecting the arrows that Arya had practiced with.

“You’re back,” she noted cheerfully when she turned around with a full quiver. “Where were you?”

“The queens’ meeting,” he let her know before he looked around, Arya’s absence informative. “The brotherhood is here?”

“Yes,” Meera confirmed as she inspected the bow the Stark princess had simply dumped on the snowy ground. “I’ve never seen your sister so _ happy_. She threw herself at this man, then hit him so hard he almost fell over.”

Bran chuckled. 

It seemed that Aryas, who had seemed so sure about never getting married, already had her heart committed to a romantic relationship.

The Three-Eyed-Raven could not tell what kind of welcome awaited Gendry Waters once both queens learned of his parentage, but he knew that the more people his family cared about, the harder they would all fight to not just win the Great War, but to _survive_ it so they could _live_ its aftermath with their loved ones.

What about their _ allies_?

“I need to look into something,” he warned his betrothed.

His _ betrothed_. Bran could feel himself blush at the mere thought that he would once marry this amazing woman.

He blushed harder when Meera dropped a soft kiss on his forehead as she adjusted the furs on his lap.

“Do not tarry, supper will be served in less than an hour,” she advised him before straightening back up and joining Nymeria at the roots of the weirwood tree.

It took a few excited beats of the Three-Eyed-Raven's heart to focus on another crow, which was perched at the window of a sitting room in the guest hall.

* * *

_ “All these crows,” Tyrion Lannister commented as he peered at the one on the other side of the glass window. “They remind me of your little birds, my friend. At the risk of sounding like a madman, I am convinced that the Starks are using these creatures to spy on everyone.” _

_ “Such claim does make you sound mad, my friend,” Varys of Lys confirmed as he rolled up a tiny piece of parchment and stuck it into one of his sleeves. “The queen’s cousin, Robin Arryn, has been invited to Lord Baelish’s trial. As the boy considers him a father figure, I imagine that he will arrive swiftly.” _

_ “Littlefinger, fell by someone who has only stepped onto the gameboard,” the dwarf declared breathily. “Who would have thought? The Mockingbird defeated by the Dragon.” _

_ “Which one?” the spy questioned with a pointed look at his comrade. _

_ “What do you mean, which one? _ Our queen Daenerys_, of course!” Lord Tyrion specified. “I don’t believe that Jon Snow even knows about the game of thrones in the first place.” _

_ “ _ Jaehaerys Targaryen _ is a powerful piece on the gameboard by virtue of his birth,” the eunuch argued. “And by virtue of his deeds, he is one of the best contenders to the Iron Throne…If not the best.” _

_ “Your jest is of poor taste, my friend,” the southern lord chided with a frown as he absentmindedly twirl his cup of wine. “Do not let Her Grace hear you say such treasonous words.” _

_ “It is not treason if my vision includes her being queen of Westeros,” Lord Varys objected calmly. _

_ “You were the one claiming that a woman might just be what the realms needed to recover from the tyrannical reigns of the previous kings, and _now_ you want a northern fool to sit on that accursed chair?” _

_ “The Iron Throne is indeed accursed, which is why I do not wish for Daenerys Targaryen to sit on it,” the spy explained. “She has subjects in Essos and will have subjects in Westeros, and remaining in the Red Keep to play the game with whatever would remain of the southern court would distract her from their plights on either side of the Narrow Sea. On the opposite side, Sansa Stark wouldn’t let her brother-cousin be anything but a just and attentive king, a man that her northern subjects wouldn't mind calling king_ _.” _

_“At least we are of a mind that Sansa is better suited to be just Lady Stark of Winterfell__,” the dwarf stated. “She wouldn’t be able to keep the Riverlands in any case. The moment Edmure Tully sees the dragons, he will know to bend the knee to Daenerys. He owes his title of Lord Paramount to _ her _ ancestor, after all. And with Littlefinger's demise, I believe that persuading the young Lord Arryn to side with us won't be too difficult.” _

_ Whatever reply Varys of Lys had was interrupted by a knock on the door of the sitting room. _

_ “Who goes there?” Tyrion Lannister asked as he hopped off his chair. _

_ The door opened on Missandei of Naath, who looked concerned. _

_ “Lord Tyrion, there is a man outside claiming to be your brother,” the former slave announced quietly after she stepped inside. _

_ “Claiming? I’m not _ claiming _ anything, I _ am _ his brother!” a voice said on the other side of the partially opened door. “Tyrion, would you please tell these barbarians to keep their sharp tools away from my person? I am an _ official friend _ of House Stark, harming me would not be in your foreign queen’s favor!” _

_ “Jaime?” the Hand to the dragon queen exclaimed before pushing the door fully open, distracting the dothraki who was standing behind it holding his curved blade in front of the infamous knight. _

_ “I knew that you didn’t recognize me when you arrived,” the older Lannister commented with a smile as he sidestepped the Essosi warrior to enter the sitting room. “I would not have recognized_ myself _ in those furs. Thank the Maiden that this castle was built on top of hot springs!” _

_ “You mean ‘thank the Crone’ good ser,” Varys corrected. “She’s the one carrying a lantern, hence the one lighting up the hearth.” _

_ “Lord Varys, I suggest you start growing your hair to protect your bright, scheming mind from the cold winds,” Ser Jaime joked as he dismissed the translator with a hand gestured. “Go fetch me a cup, girl—no, bring a cup _ and _ another cask of wine. I doubt that there’s anything left for me in that one.” _

_ “I am not a _ girl_, I am the Herald of Her Grace Daenerys Targaryen, rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms,” the Naathi woman corrected the knight with her chin held high. _

_ “That she is,” Lord Tyrion confirmed when his brother looked to him with raised eyebrows. “Please, Missandei, forgive my brother’s rude behavior, he must be dehydrated from the frigid climate. Have someone bring enough wine to quench his thirst.” _

_ The young woman nodded curtly before walking out of the room, and one of the dothraki guards closed the door. _

_ “A slave girl serving as the queen’s herald, is it? Daenerys Targaryen surrounds herself with the most peculiar individuals,” Jaime Lannister declared as he took a seat after glancing at the window. “These damned crows! Did you know that Brandon Stark controls them? I have yet to see him alone to offer my apologies for what I did to him the last time I was a guest in this castle.” _

_ “Missandei is a free woman,” Tyrion Lannister corrected his brother. “ _ Wait!_ In truth, the Starks are using the crows to spy on everyone?” he asked, staring at the one looking in from the window. _

_ “Crows do not _ speak, _ brother, don’t be ridiculous,” the knight replied. “They’re trained to carry messages more efficiently than ravens, that is all. The boy probably learned to do that in the wilderness, can’t imagine there was much else for him to do. I’m more wary of the direwolves. _ And _ the dragons. Gods, life was so much simpler when we only had to worry about venomous snakes from Dorne!” _

_ Tyrion Lannister and Varys of Lys exchanged conspicuous looks as someone knocked at the door again, and a chambermaid—Denna—brought the requested cask of wine and additional cup on a tray. _

_ Lord Varys and Lord Tyrion joined Ser Jaime at the table. _

_ “You _ left _ Cersei,” the dwarf stated flatly, though his shock was clear. _

_ “Not of my own free will at first, but yes, I have decided to fight in the Great War,” the knight confirmed as he poured himself some wine, then perked up. “By the Stranger, Tyrion! I just remembered first hearing about the army of the dead from _your_ lips when we last visited this place. The ‘ _ white walkers' _, wasn’t it what you said? They simply call them ‘wights’ around here. Not like the color, like ghosts.” _

_ “Cersei Lannister _ let you _ join Sansa Stark’s army?” Varys questioned, looking equally surprised by the knight’s presence in the North. _

_ The Lannister brothers snorted at the same time. _

_ “Cersei had so many people _ killed _ in King’s Landing,” said Jaime Lannister after a moment of suspenseful silence, his two companions alert as he stared at the content of his cup. “She killed nearly all the Tyrells. She killed Queen Margaery, _ Tommen’s wife_. His grief pushed him to take his own life…” _

_ “Gods,” Tyrion whispered, his eyes quickly misting over. “I thought…I thought that Cersei had Tommen stepped down somehow, that the rumors were _ false_, even if they came from Varys’ trusted sources. I’m so sorry, brother.” _

_ “I know that you’re sorry, I can tell that _ you _ are,” the kingslayer stated as he searched his brother’s eyes. “I couldn’t tell if _ she _ was.” _

_ “Jaime, no,” Lord Tyrion objected softly. “Our sister has many flaws and can be accused of many crimes, but being an unloving mother was _ not _ one of them. She loved her children dearly, _ all _ of them, more than anything in the world.” _

_ “You weren’t there, Tyrion,” Ser Jaime argued. “After Joffrey, then Myrcella, it seemed that she had no love left for our youngest…Myrcella’s death was not your fault, brother,” he quickly added when the dwarf lowered his head. “I never begrudged your decision to send her to Dorne, Tyrion. Myrcella looked so happy when I reunited with her in Sunspear. She had a good life there, a _ better life _ than what she would’ve had if she’d been in King’s Landing, if she’d been in the middle of all the shit that befell our family, that befell us all because we thought ourselves _ untouchable_.” _

_ “Brother,” the younger Lannister chided gently. _

_ “Am I wrong?” the knight challenged. “ _ Cersei _ defied Ned Stark, and couldn’t prevent _ Joffrey _ from killing him, or rather she didn’t _ care to _ stop Joffrey from declaring war on the Starks because she thought that they would bow to our bastard son; _ Father _ underestimated Robb Stark, and that got _ me _ imprisoned. _ I _ killed one of our second cousins to get to escape the Starks’ camp, all for naught. I remember being too ashamed to tell you the day of your trial. Alton, if I remember correctly…” _

_ “Lady Cynda’s second son,” Tyrion immediately recalled before he grasped the meaning of his brother’s words. “That’s why you mentioned the lack of term for murdering cousins…” _

_ “If it’s any consolation, Cersei burned your _ first _ cousin Lancel Lannister along with the Tyrells and the devouts of the Faith of the Seven,” Varys offered, shrugging when the brothers glared at him. _

_ “My point is that every tragedy that has stricken our family was a consequence of _ our own actions_,” Jaime resumed. “Targaryen, Martell, Baratheon, Stark, Tully, Tyrell…Let’s not forget Jon Arryn, whose death got us to visit Winterfell the first time around. Our great house has had a hand in the death of at least one member of all the others. And look at us now, brother. _ Look at us._” _

_ The knight slammed his golden hand on the table, and pointed at Lord Tyrion’s scar across his face with his natural one._

_ “In a normal situation, our house would be in no danger of extinction,” the knight pointed out. “You and I are both young, we could still father heirs and rebuild from the ruin we brought to ourselves. But we _ cannot_, can we? We’re going to die in a war against a foe we cannot _ pay _ someone else to have killed.” _

* * *

Bran’s sight shifted back to his own eyes, and he nodded when Meera asked her if he was ready to return to his chambers to change into the clothes Sansa had suggested he wore for the first meal taken with their royal guest and the court of the tripartite kingdom in the great hall.

Meera helped him don the elaborate attire: a white tunic embroidered with red leaves down the length of its left sleeve, the design repeated on the grey doublet worn over it and under a high-necked midnight blue woolen jerkin. A scenery was embroidered in silver thread on the right sleeve of his doublet: a fish jumping out of a stream below a falcon soaring by a crescent moon. His breeches were made of plain dark leather and his boots were warm and comfortable, hidden by the smooth grey fur blanket covering his lap.

The Stark prince wore a chain forged out of a dull pale metal, two direwolves heads similar to the ones on Sansa’s crown hanging from it at the center of Bran’s chest.

He did not need to wear it in the great hall, but Bran also had a new hooded fur cloak, its straps embossed with the Stark direwolf head just like Jon’s.

As for Meera herself, she wore a dark green overcoat cinched at the waist by a dagger belt, its wide sleeves slit at the elbows to show the narrower ones of the black dress she wore underneath.

Yes, Meera was wearing _ a dress_, and she was _ breath-taking _ in it, especially with her smoothly brushed hair gathered to fall over one shoulder. At first Bran had thought that the dress was a very thick shift, but it molded too tightly to her torso before loosening up at the waist into a beautiful wide skirt intricately embroidered with green and brown motifs.

_ “It looks like the bogs on summer nights,” _ Meera had claimed in a whisper after twirling around in it, her voice full of wonder.

Bran was grateful to Sansa for sewing a dress that his betrothed had taken to so readily, but he wondered why his sister had sewn the dress with such a wide and _ low _ neckline. It had made him struggle for air when Meera had emerged from behind the dressing screen.

The prince refused to acknowledge the fleeting idea of helping Meera out of the dress when they returned from supper.

“We match,” Arya noted out loud as she joined Bran and Meera on their way to the great hall.

Arya was wearing a knee-length, sleeveless white overcoat, the sleeves of her doublet the same Stark grey as Bran’s own with the combined Tully and Arryn sigils embroidered in silver on the right side, but no weirwood leaves on her left one. Instead, she had a thin grey cape draped across her torso, secured at her waist by her sword belt and at her left shoulder by a sizable brooch in the shape of the two direwolves heads. Arya’s woolen breeches were midnight blue, and her leather boots were of a more intricate design than Bran’s.

“Where’s your dagger?” the Stark princess asked him with narrowed eyes that quickly shifted to Meera, “and where are your knives?”

The Reed woman grinned before flapping open one sleeve of her overcoat, revealing a knife strapped to the sleeve of her dress.

Bran calmly tapped the right armrest of his sliding chair before slipping his hand underneath it, where the Valyrian steel dagger was not quite hidden, but would not be obvious unless someone watched closely.

“Good,” Arya declared with a nod of approval.

The three of them arrived in the crowded and warm great hall from the back door as Daenerys Targaryen—dressed in black and red—and Tyrion Lannister—dressed in red, black and gold—entered through its front doors, and the five of them waited for Sansa and Jon to arrive to step up to the queen’s table.

Bran quickly noted the new faces in the large room, the disfigured faces of Sandor Clegane and Beric Dondarrion the easiest ones to single out. The Stark prince had to follow his dark-haired sister’s gaze to find where Gendry Waters was seated, on the other side of the room with Thoros of Myr at the table where Tormund Giantsbane and other Free Folk representatives were laughing while sipping their favored fermented milk but leaving the food and ale untouched.

Then Lady Brienne opened the front doors, and all stood as she and Podrick Payne walked briskly across the room to station themselves behind the queen’s table, though they took the time to inspect every corner of the great hall with their eyes.

A few murmurs trailed after Sansa and Jon as they walked towards the dais at a matched pace.

Sansa’s fur-lined dress was of a darker grey than Arya and Bran’s doublets, all the more for the silver embroidery of the Tully trout and the Arryn falcon to stand out at the hem of its hanging wide sleeves and at the bottom of it skirt, though the intricate snowflakes and weirwood branches motifs were just as eye-catching.

As it was for Bran, the red of weirwood leaves seemed to flutter along the queen’s left sleeve, but also appeared to float down and land on Jon’s black boots, though a closer inspection would reveal that the red on his side was of Targaryen design.

In fact, the boots were the only part of Jon’s attire honoring his true parentage, as he was wearing a Stark armor, though in reversed colors: the plates and bracers were black and the quilted leather was brown—though it could pass for dark red under the torches light. His armor had a metal gorget, the two direwolves engraved at its center.

“Oh,” Bran heard Meera whisper at the sight of the royal pair right before they passed them to stand by the chairs that Brienne had drawn out for them.

The Three-Eyed-Raven quickly scanned the people around him, and noticed a mixture of awe, suspicion and curiosity on the faces of those staring intensely at Sansa and Jon.

Not staring at them individually, but staring at them _ together_.

“Ah,” the crippled prince breathed out himself before his sister queen spoke up.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More reunions next chapter, and Littlefinger's long awaited trial!
> 
> I thought that Daenerys would be more amenable to sharing Westeros with Sansa than she would be to sharing it with KitN Jon. After all, she did allow Yara to crown herself queen. Yes, I'm aware that the Iron Islands are a tiny piece of Westeros whereas Upper Westeros is over half of the continent, but the principle is the same. Daenerys wants a new order to rule the realms, and she believes in fate, so I think that it would be in character for her (from her portrayal on the show through s6) to acknowledge the power of a woman who has gone through almost the same experience as her. What Daenerys didn't acknowledge in this chapter that Sansa herself didn't bother to point out was that Sansa didn't take power from anyone. Jon, the North, the Vale and the Riverlands _chose_ her as their queen because they like her and because she has a legitimate claim to all regions of her kingdom.
> 
> I've read many fics in which Daenerys suggests or demands a marriage between Sansa and Jon, but that only works in the context of Sansa being either the Lady of Winterfell or the queen of just the North. It wouldn't be in Daenerys' ultimate interest to have Sansa and Jon be a united front in this fic with Sansa being queen of three kingdoms already. In fact, neither Tyrion nor Varys are okay with Sansa being queen at all.


	18. The Queen's Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little Gendrya, then a needed prelude to Littlefinger's trial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not very satisfied with this chapter and I hope that your feedback will help me pinpoint where I went wrong. Maybe it's just the weird Arya and LF mix?  
I know that I promised LittleFinger's trial, but I think that this interlude was necessary. Bear with me.

Kissing was weird. 

Not in a bad way, but there was something unsettling about the wet and hot play of lips and tongues and teeth that left her breathless every single time. Also, she hadn’t expected it to make her feel so…'greedy' was definitely the word for it. Every time she kissed him, she wanted _more_, and it was clear that so did he.

Arya was inexperienced, but she wasn’t naive: she knew what they both wanted. And had they not have so much to do, she might have persuaded Gendry to satisfy her greed.

But she had distracted the blacksmith for long enough already, so she abruptly stepped away from his embrace, smirking at the brief look of confusion on his flushed face.

“I…I’m not done with your weapon yet,” he reported apologetically as soon as he reclaimed his breath. “I am heading to the forge in Wintertown to check on the commission of arrows, so maybe on the morrow—”

“I didn’t come here for my weapon,” the Princess of Winterfell corrected him as she eyed the unfinished piece of dragonglass in one corner of the castle forge.

The same forge where Needle had been made by Mikken, at Jon’s request, years ago. Arya didn't know yet what name she would give her new weapon.

“Then how may I be of help to Her Grace Princess Arya?” Gendry teased her, accompanying his words with a stupid bow.

“Stop that,” the trained assassin couldn’t help replying, rolling her eyes when he grinned at her. “Don’t people get tired of all the titles and bows and curtsies? It’s_ ridiculous _ . We’re about to go to war against the undead, things like _this_ shouldn’t matter anymore.”

“People only call you ‘Your Grace’ in front of you, you know,” Gendry told her as he went back to his anvil. “They call you ‘The Grey Wolf” of ‘The Little She-Wolf’ behind your back.”

Arya knew. Others just called her ‘the queen’s sister,’ which was just fine as it gave her access to any part of the castle without having to be granted permission at every turn (not that it would’ve stopped her anyway, she often patrolled the castle without being seen). Even Jon, who was the heir prince, had to wait for Brienne’s authorization to enter Sansa’s solar or chambers, or to wait for Bran’s new attendant or Meera to enter Bran's chambers.

(To be honest, Arya herself waited for Meera to let her in Bran’s chambers too. She didn’t want to walk on anything between those two.)

“What did you come for, then, if not for your weapon?” the blacksmith asked casually as he grabbed his hammer, waiting for her answer before he could go back to working on the dragonglass blade of a short sword.

“Sansa wants to see you,” the queen’s sister informed him, pursing her lips in sympathy at when her friend’s face fell.

(He was more than a friend, but introducing him as ‘family’ to Jon would have been odd.)

“She knows, then,” the blacksmith commented with a long sigh after he put his hammer away. “Did you tell her?”

“Daenerys Targaryen did, because Varys told her,” Arya specified with a shrug. “So what? Sansa doesn’t care that your father was Robert Baratheon. He didn’t even acknowledge or raise you, you’re not like Jon. You owe no loyalty to House Baratheon, which is completely gone anyways.”

“Then why does Her Grace want to see me?” Gendry asked, and Arya didn’t like how wary he sounded at the prospect of having a private meeting with her sister.

“She wants to get to know you now that she has some time before the trial and the feast,” the princess assured him. “Sansa doesn’t like hearing about people from second-hand accounts. She likes to make her own opinion about the persons she’s supposed to care about. If she could, she’d be out making tours of her kingdoms and speaking with everyone.”

“Why would she care about _ me _of all people?" Gendry asked stubbornly as he washed his hands and started fussing about his clothes.

“Don’t be an _idiot_,” Arya chided him. “She cares about you for the same reason that Jon does: because _ I _ care about you.”

“Will His Grace be there too?” Gendry asked, hope clear in his voice.

Jon had taken to spending some time with the blacksmith since the night of the informal but still pompous feast given in honor of the dragon queen’s arrival—although it was disguised as a celebration for Sansa becoming queen of a third kingdom.

Arya suspected that her older brother had made small talk with the blacksmith the first time around as an opportunity to escape the scrutiny he’d been under that night of the feast.

Not only had some people looked askance at the heir prince because he was not ‘truly’ the Queen in the North’s brother—Sansa had forbidden Arya to hurt whoever had dared say that—but since Jon’s true parentage had been revealed, all of a sudden his marital status had become a topic of interest.

It deeply bothered Arya that, along with his own aunt Daenerys Targaryen, Sansa was among the whispered ‘ideal candidates’ as Jon’s future wife. 

Arya wasn’t blind: she’d noticed just like everyone else how Jon and Sansa looked like Ned and Catelyn Stark, just younger and obviously more powerful than the former beloved Lord and Lady of Winterfell ever were. Those who remembered the queen’s parents definitely took comfort in their new lieges’ appearance, and couldn’t be blamed for wanting them to be united by marriage.

To Arya, the idea of Jon and Sansa marrying was absurd, because as far as she was concerned, Jon _ truly was _ the Queen in the North’s brother. That’s why Sansa had named him her heir when he’d refused the crown, _wasn’t it?_

It was true that Sansa and Jon had not been close in the few years preceding their departure from home—in fact, Arya was certain they hadn't exchanged more than greetings in the months preceding their respective departures from Winterfell—but it was clear that Jon and Sansa had built a strong relationship since they’d reunited at Castle Black. They didn’t have the gallant brother-sister interactions that Sansa used to have with Robb, or the playful closeness that Arya still had with Jon, but they obviously respected and cared deeply for each other. After all, they once had thought themselves to be the only surviving children of Eddard Stark. Arya remembered the overwhelming sense of relief and gratitude she’d felt upon learning that she wasn’t the only one left, and could only imagine how Jon and Sansa had felt back then after all they’d both been through.

Arya’s heart ached for _ Rickon _, who’d been so close to reuniting with them too. She’d hugged Jon fiercely when he’d told her with a shaky voice and barely contained tears that he’d failed at rescuing their baby brother.

Jon cared about them_ all _, he always had. Unlike Robb who had to spend a lot of time learning about his duties as the future Lord of Winterfell, Jon had had the time to play with his younger siblings quite frequently—even with Sansa, until she’d become an insufferable little lady. 

Arya might have grown to be a different woman had Jon not indulged her wishes to play ‘boy’s games’ during her childhood, wishes that Theon had mocked and Rob had eventually denied after a few words from Mother and Septa Mordane. More than her basic archery skills and Needle, Arya owed Jon her ‘unlady-like’ tendencies because he had encouraged them when everyone else except her reluctant father wanted Arya to conform to the mold imposed on her as the daughter of a lord paramount.

So yes, Arya had a hard time internalizing the fact that Jon was actually her _ cousin _ , not her_ brother_. Him being the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, people who’d been dead long before Arya herself was born, was an abstract truth that she accepted intellectually, but rejected emotionally. Her heart made no distinction between him and Bran. It _ never _ would.

“I don’t know where Jon is right now,” Arya lied, “but I’ll ask him to join you if I find him. You really don’t need to worry about Sansa, Gendry. She’s probably going to ask her if you want to marry me or something just as inane that she will make sound smart.”

Gendry froze midway through his vain attempt to fix his hair, and stared at her with wide eyes.

“Marry you?” he repeated after he stopped gaping. “Do you—I _ can’t _ marry you, Arya, you’re _ royalty _ now. That’s even worse than when you were a lady.”

“I don’t care, I don’t want to get married anyways,” she replied with a shrug. 

“Oh,” Gendry reacted quietly. “You…You don’t want children? A family of your own?”

“I already have a family,” Arya pointed out, trying not to let her frustration show. “I have Jon, Sansa, Bran…and _ you _. Or do you—will you leave with the brotherhood when the war is over?”

“I can’t stay here, Arya,” he warned her, and she felt stupid for assuming that he would.

“You’re the _ queen’s sister _ ,” he uselessly added. “And the queen _summoned me_, so I better go. You’ll be training the recruits with Lady Brienne?”

“Yeah,” she confirmed. “I’m late, I have to go,” she added quickly before leaving the forge, unwilling to let Gendry see how she felt about his words.

Or maybe he knew how he felt. He had to remember how he’d made her feel all these years ago in that cave. Arya certainly did. 

She’d felt_ rejected _ then, same as she did _now._

And it was her attempt to distract herself from her feelings that made her notice the chambermaid.

Denna, right? Bran’s former servant. Arya still didn’t know why her brother had removed her from his personal entourage, and right then she didn’t care to know.

What she cared about was the fact that the maid was walking along the balcony of the _Main Keep_ carrying a tray of ale, looking very nervous for someone who’d served at Winterfell for years.

If Arya’s memory wasn’t failing her, Denna had been reassigned to the _Guest Hall_ a little after Jon’s departure for Dragonstone. Then, why was she the one bringing drinks to Jon—the multiple mugs and a jug of ale suggested that the tray was meant for the heir prince and the Freefolk leaders. The other main occupants of the Main Keep favored wine.

Maybe Elyon, Jon’s cup bearer, was slacking off somewhere with Berta, Arya’s own maid?

(Neither Jon or Arya cared about being royals, so when they wanted something they got it themselves, which left their appointed servants idle most of the day. That displeased Hilda, and in turn made Sansa lecture her siblings about the importance of making the servants feel useful.)

The queen’s sister hadn’t meant to sneak behind Denna, being silent when she walked around the Main Keep had just become a habit of hers.

Therefore, the peasant girl didn’t see the princess catch her slip a liquid into one of the ale mugs as she reached the corner around Jon’s rooms.

_Poison_. Arya didn’t have to wonder whose mug had been targeted.

She let the servant enter the room, and waited less than a minute to see her leave, her fast pace so close to a run that Arya herself had to crash Jon’s meeting in a rush.

Indeed, her older brother was conferring with Tormund Gianstbane, Dim Dalba, Magnar Sigorn, and Sylvi the Unlucky. 

“Don’t drink that, it’s poisoned!” she warned him, thankful that none of them had yet touched the tray.

“What? Poisoned?” Jon exclaimed as he stood up from his chair. “Who poisoned it?”

“I’ll tell you soon, just don’t tell Sansa!” Arya requested before running back out and silently catching up to Denna just as the latter was about to discard the vial where the rest of the poison was still stored.

The queen’s sister snatched the vial with her right hand just as her left one whipped out Needle.

“You’re going to tell me _everything_ I want to know,” she demanded from the terrified woman.

  
  


* * *

A girl scowled at the comfortable luxury of the large bedchamber where Petyr Baelish was kept prisoner in one of the few restored rooms of the First Keep. 

She understood that the acting Lord of the Vale had to be treated with respect, but it still grated her that Sansa hadn’t just thrown him in the dungeons.

She didn’t let her disapproval show as she brought in wine for the traitor and his esteemed but unauthorized visitor, Lord Robin Arryn of the Eyrie.

“I should be assisting the queen in dealing with Lord Tyrion and that Spider of Varys, not be confined here under the _unjust_ accusation of plotting against Sansa’s _ false _ brother!” Littlefinger said just as a girl closed the door behind her.

“Lord Baelish,” Robin warned with a wary look at the servant who placed the wine on the large central table by which he and his mother’s widower were standing.

“Do not worry, Robin, we are in the presence of a friend,” the traitorous Hand of the Queen in the North reassured the boy. “In fact, most northerners share my opinion that Jon Snow, or rather Jaehaerys Targaryen, doesn’t belong in Winterfell.”

Though that was untrue, a girl knew that a few northern leaders were discontent that Sansa Stark had already appointed Jon as her heir, instead of marrying and having children who would be her uncontested heirs.

“Is that true?” Robin Arryn asked with wide eyes directed at who he thought was a mere chambermaid bought off by his father-in-law.

“The North remembers, milord,” a girl recited solemnly with a brief and clumsy curtsy. 

Arya’s mind briefly supplanted the girl’s current persona to feel disgust that the North’s sacred words were being used by the traitor to gather enemies against Jon. 

From what Arya herself had gathered by spying on the occupants of the castle, Houses Cerwyn and Manderly were indeed opposed to Jon being Sansa’s heir, though Wyman Manderly was unlikely to express his displeasure for fear of losing his title as the Master of Coin.

“The North remembers what, exactly?” the queen’s cousin inquired, his gaze turning curious.

“We haven’t forgotten who truly won the battle against Ramsay Snow, milord,” a girl replied with a slow nod. “You, Lord Robin of House Arryn, was the one who sent the troops that defeated the monster who tormented our lady and now queen, Her Grace Queen Sansa.”

A girl didn’t miss the quick eye exchange between Robin and Littlefinger, before the younger man nodded back to the servant.

“I was only doing what honor dictated me to do: come to my dear cousin’s aid,” he claimed with a slight puff of his chest. “My House’s words are ‘As High as Honor,’ you see, and as the future Lord of the Eyrie I must live by them.”

“I did not know what honor meant until I met the Lord Hand, milord,” the false Denna declared sadly. “I only did what I was told to do in order to survive. I’m not proud of all I done to survive, milord, But Lord Baelish gave me the chance to become someone who can proudly serve Her Grace Queen Sansa, milord. I failed her when she was the Lady of Winterfell, but I will not fail her now. I swear by the Old Gods that I will serve her faithfully, even if she doesn’t notice me.”

A solemn silence fell into the room before Littlefinger smiled magnanimously at the chambermaid, then at his son-in-law.

“See?” he said proudly. “This is why Sansa _ deserves _ to be the queen: she inspires _ loyalty _ in people. She always has, even back in King’s Landing where she was surrounded by powerful enemies. This is why I advised you to bend the knee. But that’s not the only reason why I told you to declare for your cousin.”

“You cannot possibly still want me to marry her?” the young Lord Arryn hesitantly asked as a girl started pouring the wine for the two nobles. 

“Lord Petyr, not only is she older than me, but she’s_ the queen _ now,” the boy continued as he took a seat after being presented his full cup. “Lady Waynwood claims that Sansa doesn’t even want to marry again. Isn’t that why she named her brother heir to her throne?”

“Jaehaerys Targaryen is Queen Sansa’s_ cousin _ ,” Littlefinger immediately corrected his protégé as he also sat down. “The _ wrong _ cousin to name her heir. _ You _ should be the heir to the throne of Upper Westeros, Robin, since Sansa’s trueborn siblings refuse to assume that role. You have blood ties to all three kingdoms like the Starks, but the Targaryen _ doesn’t _.”

“Why would Arya refuse such an honor?” the young lord wondered out loud. “Bran, I can understand, no one would accept being ruled by a cripple. But Arya? She’s a woman, true, but so is Sansa. Being queen wouldn’t be a novelty anymore if she succeeded to the throne.”

“The queen's sister,” Baelish started before letting out a long sigh. “I should have taken her under my wing when I was given the opportunity. She wouldn’t have turned so…distrustful and cold, though I do appreciate her being much less vulnerable than Sansa.”

“When would you have had the chance to take care of Arya? She was reported missing for years right after Lord Stark's murder,” Robin Arryn pointed out with a deep frown.

“I saw her at Harrenhal when it was occupied by the Lannisters during the Battle of the Five Kings,” Littlefinger informed him as a girl stationed herself inconspicuously by the hearth. 

“She was passing for a boy,” the traitor recalled, “and fortunately for her, Tywin Lannister didn’t know the face of Ned Stark’s daughters, otherwise he certainly would’ve used her to weaken Robb Stark’s resolve. I do suspect that he did know that she was a girl, it was quite obvious to anyone observant enough.”

A girl remembered Harrenhal. It was there that she had first witnessed Jaqen H’gar skills as a faceless man. And though back then Arya Stark had wished that Tywin Lannister would lose the war against her brother, she’d had no ill will against the Lord of Casterly Rock himself. He had actually reminded her of her own father, the way he had seen no wrong in her being a girl wearing a boy’s clothes, or in her being smart.

“Had she and I established a relationship like I had with Sansa in King’s Landing, I could’ve claimed Arya Stark as one of my spies or servants,” Littlefinger speculated. “I was Master of Coin under King Joffrey, I couldn’t have openly offered my protection to a Stark, but she was Cat’s daughter, Lysa’s niece…I should’ve done_ something _. Now she distrusts me even more fiercely than Jon Snow, ah, I mean Jaehaerys Targaryen. A man who would’ve usurped her sister’s crown had he not known that he had a bigger throne to claim.”

A girl did not react to the ridiculous accusation, but Robin Arryn voiced his doubts.

“I was told that he himself only learned of his identity recently,” he said after taking a small sip of his wine.

“Tell me, Robin, and please speak frankly," Baelish spoke evenly but with an indescribable spark in his calculating eyes. "What do you think of your father?”

A girl’s eyebrows ticked when she saw the queen’s cousin hesitate—not because of Denna, he had forgotten that she existed at this point—before answering the question.

“Do you mean…Lord Jon Arryn?” he asked quietly, his gaze lingering on his cup of wine before he locked eyes with Baelish. “Or you, _ Father _?”

The queen’s sister almost lost her face in her distraction, but quickly regained focus and decreased her presence even more, to the point that even Littlefinger seemed not to be aware that she was still there. 

“When did you realize that I was your real father?” he asked his son.

“Upon discovering letters you exchanged with Mother,” Robin Arryn answered.

(Not Robin Arryn…Robin Stone? No, his parents had married eventually, so Robin _ Baelish? _)

“But I always knew,” the boy rushed to add. “Deep down, I went from _wishing_ that you were my real father to just _knowing_ that you were him. After Mother passed, and you remained with me, I felt it through the little gestures that I used to imagine Lord Arryn would do for my benefit."

“I am glad that this secret does not stand between us anymore, my son," Littlefinger confessed with a smile that looked as sincere as a girl had ever seen on his face. "And you said it yourself: you knew, you _felt it_, even before you found proof of your parentage. Jon Snow had to know too that he wasn't truly Ned Stark's son. And I doubt that Ned Stark was cruel enough to let his nephew withstand the stigma of being a bastard, of suffering Catelyn's resentment for his unnamed mother without informing him that he was innocent of his _sin _of being born out of wedlock. And Snow has taken to his role of heir prince quite seamlessly, hasn't he? As if he'd been waiting for it all his life... Yet he wants us all to believe that he'd never coveted a throne? I know that Cat was worried about him usurping her children's birthrights, just like Lysa was worried about yours being threatened by all these lords and ladies of the Vale. That's why I left King's Landing to permanently join you and your mother, Robin: to make sure that you had a bright future, just like your cousin Sansa."

"You never gave up on me," Robin recounted with emotion. "Now that I'm a better fighter, I realize how truly _mediocre_ I was back then, so much weaker than other boys my age. I know that Lord Royce or Lady Waynwood would have used my physical weakness as a justification to deny me my title of Lord Paramount. I was too stupid before to understand that they _truly_ had the power to put _Harrold Hardyng _ahead of me,” he added, spite coating his voice when he uttered the other young man’s name. “I may not be Lord Arryn’s natural son, but he named me his heir! What right do his _vassals_ have to question his decision? And my real father _is_ the acting Lord Paramount of the Vale. You're the Hand to the_ Queen of Upper Westeros_! I am the Queen's _cousin_! That makes me a prince_ above them!_”

"No one would _ever_ question your status again if you became Sansa’s heir, Robin,” Littlefinger promised him as he grabbed his hand. “You deserve it, not just because you are her _true_ cousin, but because you helped her get this throne. Do you think that she would’ve been alive today had it not been for the Knights of the Vale? No, the battle was lost until _your_ soldiers arrived. Something must be said about the fact that Jon Snow refused to recruit more soldiers to ensure Sansa’s victory over Ramsay. He had rejected Sansa’s suggestion to visit Castle Cerwyn and White Harbor to rally Lord Cerwyn and Lord Manderly to their cause. Yet these two lords are now eagerly serving Her Grace, convinced that she is exactly what the North needed to restore honor and good faith in the lands. They claim that they would’ve fought for her against the Boltons had they seen her face to face.”

“They should have answered her call before the battle, then!” Robin argued passionately. “It’s easy to claim ignorance now…”

“Exactly,” Baelish agreed with a lift of a finger on his free hand. “Just like it's easy for Jaehaerys Targaryen to claim not knowing of his true parentage until recently.”

“Why would he have wasted years with the Night's Watch if he had known that he was a Targaryen?” the queen’s cousin argued. “I heard that it’s dreadful at the Wall, not at all as glorious as I was told as a child!”

“But it was the only place where he could be _safe_ from Robert Baratheon’s wrath,” Petyr Baelish countered. “And did he _truly_ waste his time at the Wall? Do you know who served as the Maester at Castle Black when Jon Snow swore his vows?”

A girl knew the answer to the question, and she was so shocked by what she before had assumed to be a coincidence that she didn't hear Brienne until she entered the room without knocking.

“Lord Arryn, this area of the castle is restricted to visitors,” the lady knight announced sternly before glaring at the one impersonating Denna. “What are you doing standing there?”

“Oh,” both Robin Arryn and Petyr Baelish reacted mildly now that they were aware of a girl's presence again. 

“Well, Denna here was probably tasked to bring wine to Robin," Littlefinger answered for her, "and since he came here, she was reluctant to leave the queen’s cousin alone with a prisoner. Isn't that the truth, girl?”

“Lord Arryn is an estimated guest and the queen’s family,” a girl said solemnly.

Brienne frowned deeply, her critical gaze taking in all three occupants of the room before she straightened to her full height and gripped the pommel of Oathkeeper.

“Lord Robin, please follow me to her Grace's solar.”

“Very well,” the boy agreed without resistance, and he nodded at his father before walking ahead of the Commander of the Castle Guard out of the room.

Both forgot about Denna.

“Is it done?” Littlefinger asked her after emptying half of his cup of wine. “The poison takes several hours to act, so don’t worry, no one will suspect you.”

“Yes milord, it is done,” a girl lied. “But I think that someone saw me…the queen’s sister.”

“Ah,” the traitor reacted before rubbing his beard. “I truly wish that I could sway her to our cause, my good Denna, but she’s as susceptible to her false brother’s duplicity as the queen. Fear not, I planned for this eventuality. Come back before my trial tomorrow, I should have everything arranged for your safe passage to the Eyrie. You will serve Lord Arryn from now on.”

“Yes milord, thank you milord,” a girl rushed to say, glad for her subsequent dismissal.

As Baelish himself had confirmed, she had some time before the poison she’d slipped into his cup took effect, and before that she wished to accomplish a few things: make the antidote so she could use it to further interrogate Littlefinger; report to Sansa about the other traitors in their midst; and determine whether or not Jon had actually known about his real identity all along.

If he’d known, then his eagerness to meet Daenerys Targaryen might not have been solely to recruit her dragons for the Great War.

Arya didn’t want to doubt Jon, he was _family_…But the dragon queen was _his family _ _ too _. 

That’s why he had promised that his _second child_ would be the heir to the Iron Throne and the Throne of Dragons Bay, she supposed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are always appreciated! 
> 
> What did you think about the Gendrya moment? I like the ship but I don't know if I did it justice.  
Are you a 'Robin is LF's son' believer? I know it's been almost a year since the finale, but Robin Arryn had some ridiculous glow up on screen LOL. Wasn't there supposed to be only a year between the Battle of the Bastards and that gathering of the Westerosi leaders at the dragon pit? Teenage boys, smh.
> 
> I'm still hesitating about the POV I want to narrate LF's trial: Tyrion or Jaime Lannister? Please vote for your favorite lion asap so I can edit AND post Chapter 19 in the next ten days. Where did February go?


	19. A Player Of The Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion is frustrated with his queen, so he decides to take advantage of the Mockingbird's last act to further his own agenda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is so late. I hope that everyone's safe. Many thanks to all essential staff members keeping our world running.
> 
> Be warned though, that if nothing in this chapter makes sense, I'll blame it on my quarantine's blues. After three weeks and four days of strict confinement (because my neighborhood is totally responsible for the still rising number of new cases in my city) my mind's arguably deranged. The only thing I can do other than eat, sleep and chant "not today" in my head, is write fanfiction.
> 
> Morbid humor aside: the first part of the chapter is a flashback to the second negotiation meeting between Sansa and Daenerys; the second part takes place immediately after the events of last chapter.

“I will consult with Lady Mormont to have all the goods shipped from Meereen as swiftly as possible,” Tyrion concluded as he rolled up the duplicated list of resources Sansa Stark had demanded in compensation for the attempt on her heir’s life.

A very reasonable demand, in his opinion. Dragons or not, Cersei would have asked for someone’s head in retaliation for any harm done to her heir.

_Sansa Stark isn't Cersei,_ the rightful Lord of Casterly Rock reminded himself.

To be quite honest, Tyrion wished that Littlefinger had done a better job at getting rid of Ned Stark's false bastard. Unlike Varys, the true queen's Hand didn't believe that the hidden Dragon Prince had any right to play the game of thrones. He shouldn't be on the game board at all. The fool had _died_, for crying out loud!

The red priestess shouldn't have brought him back. He was ruining _everything_. Not only had Snow emboldened Sansa Stark—a girl who until now had only played the game in order to _survive_—by crowning her queen, but he had also changed Daenerys Targaryen's vision.

Before meeting her nephew, the Breaker of Chains had decided to surround herself with people who _deserved_ to stand by her when she sat on the Iron Throne. People whose merit was based not just on their contribution to her rise in power, but also on their faith that she could change this world for the best. People who had nothing to their names: a banished slave trader, savages from the Great Grass Sea, former slaves, an old knight repenting for serving the wrong kings, a eunuch who had conspired against her house, and an exiled dwarf whose house had decimated hers.

Daenerys Stormborn had seen past the flaws and forgiven the betrayals of those who'd pledged to follow her...because she'd recognized that to bring up a new order, to _break the Wheel_ crushing the good people of Westeros, she needed to banish the old regime governing the realms. She'd recognized that _meritocracy_ must replace_ absolute monarchy_ in order to build a more just world for her people. And though Tyrion had recognized the act of war that burning Jon Snow in Dragonstone had represented, he had not tried very hard to dissuade his queen from making the monumental mistake because he had appreciated the message behind Daenerys' decision—that she would not to be swayed by the promise to gain what a young highborn woman and survivor of unspeakable abuses and betrayals like her (and _Sansa Stark_) _craved_ but was not naive anymore to believe she could truly obtain: the protection of a strong, dashing and honorable man who would unconditionally give his life to protect hers; who would consolidate her rule without attempting to overpower her; who she could trust to never betray her...because he was _family_. 

But now? _Now_ the Dragon Queen dreamed of forging a strong relationship with her long lost nephew, and not only wished to rebuild the _Targaryen Dynasty_ through him, but she also meant to _share Westeros_ with the She-Wolf Queen. All that because Jaehaerys Targaryen, rather than bend the knee to the true queen, to his true father's sister, had decided to side with his maternal family.

_The Starks._ Whereas Daenerys had needed to fight countless battles in order to return home and claim her birthright, Sansa Stark and her siblings had simply waited for the climate to change all over the continent in order for their house to rise in power, stronger and more powerful than ever. For there clearly was a threat implied in the Starks' words, one that no one had ever bothered to read between the lines: 'Winter is Coming..._and when it does_, Westeros will regret ever underestimating the seemingly least ambitious of the great houses'.

Even Tyrion, who had a great deal of affection for Sansa Stark, couldn't have expected her to be where she was this day: in the Lord Stark's solar, the successor to her traitor king brother, and despite not having a clue on how to fight a battle, there she sat, a crown on her head, the ruler of not just the North, but of the Vale and the Riverlands too. 

Because of the man sitting to her right. The man who Petyr Baelish had intuited to be an obstacle to his plans—no, to _anyone's_ plans of winning the Iron Throne.

Jon Snow, as he oddly preferred to be called. His sister-cousin had the power to rename him Jon _Stark_, but he clearly did not wish for it.

An oddity, but indeed why would he care about _one name_ when he already had so _many titles_: Chosen and Sworn Heir to Her Grace Sansa Stark, Queen of Upper Westeros; the Bastard of Winterfell; the White Wolf; the 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch; the Savior of the Free Folk; the Guardian of the Realms of Men?

Had Tyrion any say on the matter, he would replace 'the White Wolf' with 'the Dragonwolf'*. For now that he could observe the lad more closely, Tyrion saw that Ned Stark's false bastard's nose resembled the Dragon Queen’s, and that the two Targaryens had the same brow. The dwarf remembered finding Lord Stark's natural son too pretty when he had seen him clean-shaven all those years ago. Indeed, underneath the facial hair, the northern prince’s jaw was barely wider and sharper than Daenerys’ comely one.

_ His false status as baseborn truly shielded him from Robert Baratheon, _Tyrion reflected. _ Had the drunk stag laid his eyes on his friend’s infamous bastard son when he'd last visited Winterfell, there is no doubt that he would have seen past his coloring and recognized him as the dragon that he is. _

Tyrion wondered if Varys or even Littlefinger had come to the conclusion, just like him, that Ned Stark _ had _ been a player of the Game after all.

Had Lord Stark devised a plan to sit his nephew on the Iron Throne after the death of his old friend? No, surely not, or he wouldn’t have let the boy swear his life to the Night’s Watch.

_Well, surely a king could _pardon _himself for deserting,_ Tyrion amended internally.

And for all Tyrion knew, Lord Stark had sent his nephew to Castle Black to keep him safe from a war the Quiet Wolf had meant to start himself…

No, _no,_ those were simply fanciful conjectures. The foolishly honorable Eddard Stark had simply meant to protect his beloved sister’s son from Robert Baratheon's wrath, nothing more. 

What was more surprising to realize was that, like the rest of Westeros, Lord Stark had not taken the threat of the White Walkers seriously, or he wouldn't have let the boy he had sworn to protect live at the Wall. Tyrion himself hadn't believed Lord Commander Jeor Mormont and Measter Aemon's passionate claims that the dead were marching south, ready to wage war on the living.

_ Nothing could have been done about the army of the dead then_, the Lord Hand reflected. _The red priestess is adamant that both Daenerys and Snow are needed for a chance to defeat those magical creatures. And thanks to the true queen’s _ _ dragons, the living will prevail. _

Tyrion would make sure to remind Lord Arryn and Lord Tully to whom their people's survival really depended on when the time came. He planned to make his move to convince the local rulers of the Vale and the Riverlands to bend the knee to the true queen right after Littlefinger's trial, but before the feast to send-off the troops going to defend humanity at the Wall.

What could Sansa Stark do, then: declare war on the woman upon whom the victory against the Night King depended? Her too large council would unanimously advise her to focus on the Great War first.

“Nephew,” Queen Daenerys addressed Snow softly after taking a quick sip of wine, hopefully in preparation for a rousing speech.

She ought to convince the last of her kin to give her the guarantee that he would not forsake her once the war against the dead was won.

“You once offered me a way to seal the alliance between my throne and Queen Sansa's, and I rejected it," she recounted thoughtfully. "I now humbly request that you renew that offer—no, _not_ by marrying me,” she reassured the northern prince whose eyes had gone comically wide, "but by promising to help me rebuild House Targaryen, which is yours to care for as much as House Stark is."

Debatable. By virtue of his birth, Rhaegar's son should only care for his father's family, but since he had sworn himself to Sansa Stark as a knight would do, he was now duty-bound to only serve his sister-cousin.

Jon Snow warily glanced at her, but apart from a slight pinch of her lips, the lady passing for a queen was the epitome of impassivity.

"I have already sworn my life to Queen Sansa," the skilled swordsman needlessly pointed out. 

"_Your_ life, yes," Daenerys acknowledged. "But not the lives of _your children._" 

Snow gasped, while his redheaded relative merely curled her fingers on the armrest of her chair.

"My heir would automatically be Sansa's heir," the false bastard's argued dully.

It was Tyrion's turn to glance at his queen and wordlessly plead her to end this most boring verbal sparring.

"Your heir being your_ firstborn,_" the true queen countered patiently. "I only ask for your _second child_, male or female, to take the Targaryen name."

This time, Sansa Stark blinked.

_You had not anticipated that, had you She-Wolf?_ The Lord Hand asked internally. _You might fancy yourself a clever player of the game, but Daenerys has no less than three long-term players on her side: me, Varys and Lady Olenna. With Baelish branded a traitor, you have no proficient player on your side. You will lose this round, and the next, and the one after it, until you return to the position you should have contented yourself with: that of the Lady of Winterfell, Wardeness of the North._

"I...I accept, Your Grace, _aunt_," the Dragonwolf agreed to the term, his words choppy, and everyone pretended that he did not look displeased to do his duty when truly he should feel honored_, _nay, _blessed_, to be allowed to contribute to the brighter future of Westeros. He, a painfully inept player of the Game.

“The Sand Snakes are on route as we speak, they shall arrive on time for the feast," Tyrion informed the northerners now that the hardest part of the negotiations was past them. "Obara and Nymeria are not Princess Ellaria's daughters, so I recommend_—"_

_"Princess_ Ellaria," Sansa Stark repeated, feigning curiosity.

"Dorne has always been a principality, since the time of Aegon the first," the Lord Hand reminded the Queen in the North, who surely already knew that fact, so why ask?

Was it because she found the bastard daughter of a baseborn royal an _unsuitable match_ for her brother-cousin?

"Children born out of wedlock in Dorne _do not_ carry any shame for the nature of their birth," the dwarf assured the She-Wolf's sworn sword, who had lived all his life as a shunned bastard.

"That is a relief to hear, Lord Tyrion," Snow commented with a confused frown. "But why are we discussing the parentage of these women?"

"A union between House Targaryen and House Martell would strengthen my alliance with Ellaria Sand," Queen Daenerys was the one who took pity on the lad's slow mind. "Lady Tyrell has yet to confirm the survival of the secondary branch of her great house, and I doubt that any of her surviving nieces or grandnieces-in-law will make it before our departure for the Wall."

"You want Jon to marry _before_ he leaves for battle," Sansa Stark finally caught onto the idea.

Tyrion had known her to be sharper. Had she been lost in thoughts of Baelish's trial? She must have been. Tyrion himself could not wait to witness the fall of the Mockingbird.

“If anyone should have a say in the selection of my lady wife, it would be Queen Sansa," Snow asserted firmly.

"And I only plan on helping Jon choose between the candidates he will pick for himself," the red-haired queen immediately specified. "_After_ the war is won."

_Seven hells, _Tyrion cursed internally. _These Starks are aggravating me on purpose._

"What would be the use of negotiating the terms of our alliance _now_ if you do not plan on fulfilling your side of the bargain _before_ the battle?" the dwarf argued. "Her Grace needs a guarantee that, shall she fall in battle_—"_

"She won't," Jon Snow cut him off, and Tyrion blinked at the conviction in his voice.

"Are you a _prophet_ on top of being the secret son of Rhaegar Targaryen?" The Lord Hand inquired mockingly.

"You _will not_ fall against the army of the dead," the false bastard addressed his aunt, ignoring Tyrion altogether.

It had been quite some time since the dwarf had felt the sting of such an abrupt dismissal. To experience it from a boy who had lived all his life as a bastard made the wound to his ego quite deep.

"You are Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen," the heir to the usurper queen stated as he looked right into the eyes of the Dragon Queen. "the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains, the Khalessi of the Great Grass Sea...The Mother of Dragons."

No, no, no, this bastard _wouldn't dare..._

"The world hadn't seen a dragon in almost a century, and you hatched _three of them_," the heir prince of Winterfell parroted Daenerys' _own words_ back to her as he slid his arm across the desk, almost reaching out to his aunt_—_who was glued in her seat, her full attention on him. "One of them is almost as large as Balerion the Black Dread, and it is still a youth. You told me yourself, that you would _exterminate_ the army of the dead._"_

"On the conditions that you bent..." Tyrion tried to remind the false bastard, but he was muted by the sharp movement with which the Dragon Queen grabbed her nephew's outstretched hand.

"_We_ will," the rightful queen of Westeros promised vehemently. "_You and I_, as the red priestess foretold. _Together,_ we will turn the Night King and his army to _ashes_. Me riding Drogon, and you riding Rhaegal. _House Targaryen_ will save Westeros from these ice demons. With the fire of my children and the blood of Old Valyria running through our veins on its side, the living will prevail from the dead."

_The Others take me already,_ the dwarf whined silently. _How could the queen fall for such unoriginal flattery? And how unrefined of a tactic for one such as you, Sansa Stark...Oh._

If the She-Wolf had been the one advising her heir to appeal to Daenerys' pride, why was she glaring so intensely at the joined hands of the last two Targaryens? And why the sour look on her comely face?

_She is jealous,_ Tyrion realized, his shocking discovery made a mere second before his former wife smoothed her expression to a neutral mask again, but he saw her fingers curl tightly on the wood of her armrest once again.

_Sansa Stark isn't Cersei, _he repeated to himself._ But it seemed that she could not quite help adopt a few of my sister's vices: her thirst for power, and her lust for her own brother._

* * *

* * *

"As _I_ predicted, we will have to find another way to establish and secure trade between the Iron Throne and Dragons Bay," Varys commented simply after Tyrion lamented the uselessness of the meeting with the Starks for the third day in a row.

Dragons Bay was _ still _ prosperous, but that prosperity wouldn’t last for long unless the Dragon Queen established trade with wealthy allies. The region benefited from free labor no longer, and with much of its resources being exhausted for the Great War in Westeros, the Queen needed a new stable source of revenue to feed her freed slaves.

Tyrion had tried to make contact with the Free Cities, but their leaders would not associate themselves with a ‘conquering whore with the blood of Old Valyria’. Those had been the words of the Volantene officials.

Ideally, Dorne would have smoothed out the relations between Queen Daenerys and the major trading centers of Essos, but Ellaria Sand had admitted that it would take some time for her to regain the trust of many Essosi merchants, who resented her assassination of the respected Prince Doran.

"Marrying one of the Snakes to Snow was the swiftest way to 'encourage' Ellaria Sand to turn Sunspear itself into a major trading center of Westeros," Tyrion maintained as he poured himself some wine. "Even the Mad King had been _lucid enough_ to heed your advice to marry his heir Rhaegar to Princess Elia Martell for that very reason, but Her Grace let her nephew talk himself out of a similar union."

"We will not help Daenerys break the Wheel by having her _repeat history_," the Spider argued calmly as he gazed out the window. "So far she's prevailed against great odds through daring, unconventional and dare I say outrageous tactics. Sansa Stark will remain an obstacle as long as our moves are _predictable_. Speaking of predictable..."

The eunuch sighed before turning around to face Tyrion.

"I've heard whispers about a bird trying to kill a wolf," he shared, sounding so bored that it took a moment for the dwarf to process the information.

Good old Littlefinger. Trying to assassinate Sansa Stark's brother-cousin _in Winterfell_ after he'd failed doing so in the South? How predictably daring of him, indeed.

"Well, if the White Wolf can survive dragon fire," Tyrion drawled, "surely mundane poison won't harm him."

"What has the son of Rhaegar Targaryen done to have you resent him so, my friend?" Varys asked him, because of course he could see right through him.

"Inspired incestuous thoughts in my former wife?" the Lord Hand answered uncertainly. "I am aware that the two are truly _cousins_ and not siblings, but they grew up as such, and_—"_

"Does Jaehaerys seem to return her feelings?" his fellow advisor questioned him quite brusquely.

"I'd bet the last coins of Casterly Rock's coffers that Sansa Stark does not plan on acting on her feelings," Tyrion replied with a shrug of his shoulders. "She _hates_ Cersei and would do anything to be seen as her exact opposite. She's made sure that the people love her, whereas my dear sister prides herself from having the people fear her to obedience. Similarly, Sansa won't have people whisper rumors of incest in her castle. And truly? I believe that Snow fancies his aunt, just as she fancies him. _That_ kind of incest is much less controversial in Westeros."

"I don't think that their attraction to each other is based on more than kinship," Varys argued. "But as long as Rhaegar Targaryen's son and Ned Stark's daughter do not marry, we have nothing to worry about."

"I fail to see what difference a marriage would make to the current situation, since the false bastard has already sworn his life to his sister-cousin," Tyrion pointed out.

"Do you? That is a shame," the Spider replied cryptically before returning to his watch at the window.

Tyrion forgot to ask his co-advisor to enlighten him, because right then, the eunuch smiled.

"What is it?" he asked the spy, whose usually impassive face brighten up in excitement.

"The Falcon was removed from the Mockingbird's cage," the bald man informed him. "The little Lord Arryn does not look happy at all."

"Lord Arryn?" Tyrion repeated as he hopped off his chair, but he didn't bother trying to look outside the too tall window.

Instead, he wrapped himself in his cloak and had one of the Dothraki guard tell Missandei to request an audience with Sansa Stark for the queen at once. 

"I wanted to wait until after Lord Baelish was no longer an influence to the young Lord Arryn to talk to him," Tyrion confided in his friend, "but as you said, let's not allow the She-Wolf to read our plans."

"Where would the fun of the game be, indeed?" Varys replied with an approving nod.

* * *

"Good day, Lord Arryn," Tyrion greeted with a modest bow as he, Varys and Queen Daenerys passed the young lad at the door to Sansa Stark's solar.

Tyrion had expected the Queen in the North to make them wait longer since their request for an audience was impromptu, but the gods were smiling upon him.

He could not have expected a better reaction from Lysa Arryn's impulsive son.

"_You!_ _The Imp_!" the lad almost screamed, his voice much deeper than it had been the last time the two of them has seen each other.

"Me, indeed, my lord," the dwarf confirmed, ignoring his queen's curious gaze.

As Tyrion predicted, the future Lord of the Eyrie pivoted on his heels and slapped off Lady Brienne's forbidding arm to follow the lion, the spider and the dragon into the wolf's den_—_or was it the wolf's _cave_? Even direwolves would have difficulties digging in the frozen ground of the North during the winter.

Direwolves, _plural_, for the entire Stark family was occupying the queen's solar.

Huh.

Arya Stark was dressed differently from usual, actually wearing _a dress_, and not one worthy of her stature as a princess. She was positively glowering at the vial her sister-queen was holding with a steady hand.

Jon Snow looked grim, which was not much of a change from his usual state, but it was the deeply concerned expression on Brandon Stark's face that clued the true queen's Hand that they'd learned of the attempt to poison the Dragonwolf.

"Tell me, _Your Grace,_" Robin Arryn demanded, spitting his cousin's title with venom as he pointed a shaky, accusatory finger at Tyrion. "How is it that you let this monstrosity _walk free_ in your castle, when he sent an assassin to murder your defenseless trueborn brother in his own home, but you cannot forgive your own Lord Hand for not risking his valuable life when it was clear that rescuing your_ bastard cousin_ would be suicidal? And here stands the woman who _actually_ tried to kill Jon Snow, this foreign invader who offers you _eunuchs_ as soldiers when I, on Lord Petyr's advice, provided you the best cavalry known to the civilized world...And she walks free as well, this _queen of slaves_, when the man to whom you owe your life and the restoration of House Stark wastes away in captivity? Is this the Queen in the North's _justice?_"

"There are so many false statements in the young Lord Arryn's words that I recommend ignoring them altogether," Lord Varys advised in a stage whisper, and Tyrion could not tell which queen he was addressing.

Hopefully the one he was bound to serve, because she was the one most affected by the lad's insults, and she was having trouble reigning in her fury. On the other hand Sansa Stark looked merely disappointed by her younger cousin's tactlessness, though the dwarf knew that it was because she'd mastered the art of masking her shock and outrage as a hostage in the Red Keep.

"As I recall, the gods already judged me innocent of the crime you just accused me of, Lord Arryn," he addressed the Warden in the East. "Your statement hence constitutes a defamation, a point you could confirm with Lord Royce, _your queen's_ Master of Laws. But I won't hold it against you, Lord Arryn. I wish for us to be _friends_, you see. Let's forget our regrettable past and forge a lasting alliance for the future."

"You _cheated,_ you kinslaying Imp! I was there!" the son of Lysa Arryn insisted passionately, ignoring his subliminal message.

For now.

"And what of her, huh?" the youngest occupant of the room questioned as he directed his glare to the white-haired queen, with not a hint of deference, not even for her incomparable beauty. "_She's the one_ who should be confined to that decrepit tower!"

"Have a care how you speak to Queen Daenerys, cousin," Sansa Stark warned coldly. "If you must know, she has paid for her crime, even after Jon _forgave her_ for it."

"But of course he _wouldn't_ forgive Lord Baelish, because he wants to _get rid of him!_" The young lord of the Eyrie accused his queen's heir this time, and wow, Littlefinger must be truly desperate to use his son-in-law and protégé in order to attack Sansa Stark's beloved brother-cousin _one last time._

For Tyrion could see from the facial expressions of _both Stark sisters_ that Baelish was done threatening their brother-cousin.

"Had you all the evidence, you would know that it is Lord Baelish who wishes to get rid of me, Lord Arryn," Snow unexpectedly replied to the other queen's cousin. "There are witnesses—"

"Men either sworn to you or to your aunt!" Robin cut him off, making an accurate statement for once. "And do you not find it odd, My Queen?" the lad then addressed Sansa Stark, respectfully this time.

"That the bastard brother you so generously named your heir was so _eager_ to ask for his own aunt in marriage? That he would bend the knee to the Targaryen Queen when he was already bound by name and duty to you? Lord Baelish is the one who pointed out this suspicious behavior, and that's why your false brother is persecuting him!"

"By name and duty?" Tyrion repeated with a scoff. "His name is Jaehaerys _Targaryen,_ he was right to propose his allegiance to the rightful heir to the Iron Throne."

Robin Arryn frowned and was about to contest the statement, but one of his cousins spoke first.

"Jon's a _Stark!_" Arya Stark argued vehemently. "His mother was Lyanna Stark, and he was raised amongst us. Our lord father _loved him_ as he did the rest of us!"

"He was a stain to aunt Catelyn's honor!" The young Lord Arryn reminded her. "If Lord Stark loved him so, why didn't he _legitimize_ him?"

As a tense silence enveloped Sansa Stark's office, Tyrion reflected that everyone in the room could guess the answer to the lad's question: Lord Stark had meant to protect Lyanna's son from Robert Baratheon...Most likely, but who could tell for sure? Eddard Stark was dead, and years ago Tyrion and the rest of Westeros had thought that his death was foretelling the fall of his Great House.

Yet there stood three of Ned Stark's five trueborn children: home, after spending years as fugitives; royals, when they'd left as young lords and ladies; powerful, not just politically, but with a magical aura surrounding the youngest survivor.

And there stood Ned Stark's _nephew_, not a bastard at all but the legitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen, who according to Varys would've been king had he not enraged Robert Baratheon. Jon Snow was a man who by all accounts should've been dead just like his two fathers, but who had been brought back to life because a fire god had _great plans_ for him.

No one alive would ever work out what Ned Stark's plan for his nephew had been, if they had been modest or great...Not even his nephew _himself_ knew. Tyrion had no love for the man Snow had become, but he remembered the sympathy he'd felt for the boy; a bastard boy who was so sick of Lady Stark's disdain that he had begged his other uncle to help him join the Night's Watch, uncaring for vows of chastity when he hadn't yet known the pleasure of a woman's bosom.

Tyrion would have defended Jon Snow _the bastard boy_ against Littlefinger's mind games, but he'd gladly observe how Jon Snow _the Dragonwolf _would defend himself from the Falcon, who most definitely had been promised the title of heir to the throne of Upper Westeros by the Mockingbird...on the condition that he removed Jon Snow from the game board. 

"_You_ can legitimize him now," Arya Stark proposed urgently to her queen sister, frustration clear in her voice. "_Why_ haven't you already done so?"

Sansa Stark tensed for a few seconds, but then exchanged a look with her crippled brother, and she relaxed minutely before addressing the whole room with a poise and a quiet charisma Tyrion wished the true queen would learn to reflect.

Daenerys Targaryen's dream to break the Wheel was most inspiring, but she herself was only ever commanding when she promised to slaughter her enemies.

_Sansa Stark is taller than most,_ the dwarf reminded himself. _Her great height and her crown help her look more commanding than she naturally is, that's all. I should have a crown made for her Grace._

"Lord Baelish's trial will be held two hours from now, after he's named a trusted lord or lady willing to see through his affairs shall his judgement lead to an execution," the She-Wolf announced steadily, not an ounce of regret for condemning the man who had cared for her in his own twisted way.

"Lady Brienne," she then called, and those giving their backs to the door startled upon realizing that the lady knight had been in the room all along. "Please escort Lord Arryn to his chambers, which he is not leave until the trial begins."

"At once, Your Grace," the loyal guard acknowledged before opening the door and calling reinforcements with a subtle nod of her blonde head.

_I commend Jaime for daring to spar with that woman without his good hand,_ Tyrion thought to himself as the massive lady soldier walked passed him to stand by a speechless Robin Arryn. 

"You cannot do that!" The young Lord Arryn eventually objected to his cousin's edict as northern soldiers filed into the solar. "Petyr had until tomorrow to..."

"Of course she can, she is _your queen,_" Tyrion reminded him with a pointed look. "Lord Baelish bent the knee _for you,_ didn't he?"

Realization sparked in the desperate boy's eyes. Smart lad.

"_I_ didn't bend the knee to Sansa Stark!" He denied even as two guards seized him by each arm. "With Petyr Baelish on trial, _all of his actions_ are subjects to review, including his decision to have the Vale join the Queen in the North's kingdom!"

The Hand to the true queen couldn't quite hide his triumphant smile as the confused soldiers let the boy squirm out of their hold and kneel in front of Daenerys Targaryen.

"And I, Robin Arryn, rightful Lord of the Eyrie, Lord Paramount of the Vale and _Warden of the East,_ hereby demand justice for my father-in-law from _the true queen of the entire Westeros_: Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne. 

_Did not expect this either, I suppose?_ Tyrion silently asked the She-Wolf as he met her bewildered gaze. _You should've known better. After all, aren't these your own mentor's words: chaos is a ladder?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *An anon reader (Obviously) came up with that nickname for Jon.
> 
> Unfortunately I'm still in the middle of a writer's block for this fic, so I can't promise a date for the next chapter. Sorry guys! Maybe one of your comments will give me the boost that I need so please be as generous with your feedback as you can.
> 
> Stay safe, everyone. If you ever feel tempted to exercise your healthy person's privilege to enjoy some fresh air just because, start repeating these legendary two words: "not today."


	20. A Crow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The players of the Game think themselves clever, and they think him stupid; that he is so obvious, that he waddles across the gameboard like a direwolf pup or a newly hatched dragon. 
> 
> What they don't realize is that he's also a crow, and whoever challenges his new vows will taste the cold blade of his sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry guys, I promised Littlefinger's trial but it's not happening right now. I've started the next chapter, though, and the Mockingbird will sing his last song in that one, pinky promise.
> 
> I just thought that it was time to 1) make this fic earn a bit of its Jonsa tag, 2) play around with a little drama because chapter 22 will be my first shot at an action scene, eeeek! and 3) let you know that Jon isn't a northern fool anymore. There were lots of hints about it last chapter, but I'm dropping more hints here and the next time there's a Jon or Sansa POV, we'll be in business.
> 
> #mahqueen, because I had to give the finger to s8 in some way.

He wasn't surprised to see his aunt's eyes spark with satisfaction when Robin Arryn looked at her from his bent knee.

He knew that Daenerys meant well, deep down. She really thought that she could save the world, that she was born to do it. That the blood of Old Valyria running through her veins, which did make her special, gave her the right to take whatever she wanted. And what she wanted more than anything was to be the queen of Westeros. She'd been ready to obtain that title through fire and blood, but she'd seemed to change her mind on conquering the entire continent. She'd been amenable to acknowledging Sansa's rule over the upper half of the realms.

A decision that her Lord Hand, the dwarf lion, clearly disagreed with. It seemed that Tyrion Lannister was still set on making all the lords and ladies of Westeros bend the knee to his queen.

Jon was tired of these southerners thinking that they could do whatever they wanted right under the nose of the Queen in the North and her sworn sword. At least Baelish had tried to kill him discreetly, and in his own twisted way the Mockingbird had tried to empower Sansa, not undermine her. And he'd succeeded in shaping her into a leader, into a player of the Game. It was just that she wasn't playing on his game board anymore, no longer his pawn. Now that she was the queen, and she was playing on her own game board. 

Littlefinger would die ignorant of the fact that Jon had learned much from him, the way Sansa had. The lessons had actually cost him his second life, but had also made him lucky, just like his cousin: 'kissed by fire', though in his case it had been quite literal. Jon had felt the flames of dragon fire embrace him, then burn down everything that had dragged him down all these years, all the insecurities and resentment and _stubborn ignorance_. Drogon, the black dragon, had finished the job that Thorne and Jon's other treasonous black brothers had started.

_ Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born. _

Aye, Maester Aemon, the boy had died. Twice, just to be certain: Jon Snow the 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and Jon Snow Ned Stark's bastard son. He was Jaehaerys Targaryen now, but he still used his better-known name: to appease Sansa's northern vassals, to keep the servants and other residents of Winterfell as comfortable around him as possible, and of course to send a message to the other players of the Game. Those who looked at him and just saw a direwolf, a dragon, or both.

He was reborn Jaehaerys Targaryen, but he was very much still a crow, always would be. He'd sworn new vows, and this time he'd truly known what the stakes were before saying them. He just hoped that Sansa would not grow to resent him from following her own advice.

_ You and I decided to fight for what was right. And what is right is for us to rule from the seat of power of our ancestors._

_**Aegon Targaryen and Torrhen Stark are both my ancestors**, _he reflected, not for the first time, as he exchanged a gauging look with Lord Varys. _**They all know it, but they do not care. Or some pretend that they don't. **_

"Aunt," he called out sharply as he returned his gaze to the dragon queen, who startled.

She stared at him, with confusion at first, then her lips parted, and he had no idea what she'd meant to say, but she softly shook her head and cleared her throat before speaking with authority:

"Even if I were your queen, Lord Arryn, I'm afraid that Lord Baelish's fate would remain the same," she pointed out to the young lord before raising an eyebrow. "Or maybe you'd wish for me to trade places with him, in that decrepit tower?"

That left the young Lord of the Eyrie speechless.

"Your Grace..." Tyrion Lannister tried to intervene, but Daenerys whipped her hand up to quiet him and looked at Lady Brienne.

"I believe that your queen gave you an order, my lady," the diminutive white-haired woman reminded the much taller blonde one.

The female knight nodded to the Targaryen queen, bowed to the Stark one, and with a jerk of her head got the other guards to drag a still stunned Robin Arryn away.

A charged silence swept into the room as the door to the queen's solar was closed.

"I imagine that a Westerosi trial, presided by a queen no less, must require preparations," Daenerys estimated as she locked gaze with Sansa. "I won't take any more of your precious time, Your Grace."

"I thank you for your understanding, Your Grace," the northern queen replied with a nod.

After nodding in return, Daenerys glared at her Hand then pivoted on her heels, and Jon blinked when he found Lord Varys already poised to open the door for her.

"Unbelievable," Bran commented when the Starks were left alone again. "I have gazed at much of Westerosi history, but these games of thrones are still too convoluted for me to understand."

"What's so hard to understand?" Arya challenged sharply as she stepped forward then turned around to face the three other occupants of the room. "It's all about which house gets to rule, and which other houses benefit from or become threatened by that rule. And this is the North! House Stark rules the North. No one should be challenging our authority in our own home!"

"They'll keep doing it until we show them our fangs," Sansa speculated before she moved to her desk and readied ink and a piece of parchment, not frantically but with haste. Even when she moved quickly, she did it with purpose.

_**As you should too, you fool,**_ Jon chided himself after blinking himself out of his admiring daze.

"How may I help?" He asked solemnly as he slightly turned in her direction, very aware of Arya's critical eyes on him.

"And I?" Bran asked in turn.

Sansa looked up from the swift message she'd written on a small piece of parchment, a grateful smile brightening her serious expression.

"Jon, I need you to return as soon as you do it, but please warn Lord Royce about Lord Baelish's early trial, and tell him to have Lady Waynwood assist him," she quickly instructed as she efficiently sealed the message she'd just penned and extended the hand holding it towards him. "This is for both of them to read."

Jon was intrigued, but he knew that she would eventually discuss the subject of her missive with him, maybe the moment he returned. So he nodded dutifully and took the scroll, exchanging quick glances with his siblings before stepping to the door.

"And Bran, I need the names of all the servants Littlefinger managed to manipulate right under my nose," he heard Sansa request before he walked out of the solar.

The hint of frustration had been clear in her voice, and he completely sympathized with her. He couldn't wait to cut the head of the snake disguising himself as a bird.

He hadn't executed Littlefinger in Dragonstone because he'd known that Sansa would want to sentence her false friend to death herself, as well witness it with her own two eyes. Jon imagined that maybe, in times such as these, his cousin wished she could properly swing a sword like Arya. But maybe not. Sansa had always been a proper lady, and she was no weaker for it than Arya or Lady Brienne. She had a different kind of strength that the two women fighters didn't. And anyway, the Queen in the North needed not stain her own hands with the blood of her enemies when she had her heir sworn to exactly do that: be her sword.

Jon usually didn't enjoy taking lives with Longclaw, but to be quite sincere, he knew that he would take great pleasure in beheading Petyr Baelish. The man who'd dared lust after Sansa so openly, when he himself couldn't.

_**It's not just lust,**_ he reminded himself._** I care deeply about her. I will never hurt her or betray her. She's my queen. I swore vows to stand by her side, and she accepted them.**_

He thought that he'd seen her eyes spark with recognition when he'd spoken his vows, but the moment had been so fleeting that he was not sure that it she'd actually understood what he'd been truly saying.

That was a worry for another day, for after the Great War. If Jon survived it. Nevertheless, he would no longer repress his thoughts, nor his feelings. He wouldn't wait for the war to fully internalize his true identity. He was multifaceted, and that was alright: direwolf, crow, dragon. He was all three.

With Littlefinger's trial held earlier than planned, maybe he would have time to practice riding Rhaegal before the tripartite army left for the wall. Between his time spent in the training yard, his meetings with different troop leaders, the Queen and her Council, and so far uninformative discussions with Bran on the army of the dead, Jon hadn't had the chance to get acquainted with the dragon named after his real father.

_**Ned Stark was a true father to me,**_ he amended on his way back from having the Master of Laws express his satisfaction with the turn of events. _**He did what he'd thought was the best way to protect me. He had meant to tell me everything, one day, or he wouldn't have his most loyal vassal and friend keep the proof of my parentage.**_

But had Lord Stark truly needed to keep the secret from everyone, even his loyal wife? Jon would've never left Winterfell if Lady Catelyn hadn't hated him so. If he'd stayed with Robb, he might have been able to fight his war with him, to protect him; or at least he might have stayed behind in Winterfell to protect Bran and Rickon.

Gods, Rickon.

"But you didn't know that back then! So why didn't he accept it?" Arya was saying, not loudly but accusingly, when Jon reentered Sansa's solar.

The three trueborn Starks looked at him as he closed the door. He was glad that Lady Brienne had returned to her post, relieving the reliable but less familiar Mormont soldier who'd been standing guard when Jon had stepped outside earlier. House Stark's secrets were safe with Sansa's sworn shield.

Bran sighed ostentatiously when Jon questioned him with a lift of his eyebrows.

"Why did you refuse to do it, Jon?" Arya questioned him with the same accusing tone.

"Refuse to do what?" He logically asked when he approached the large desk, and waited for Sansa to turn around from the window to report back to her. "Lord Royce says that the Great Hall will be accommodated for the trial within the hour."

He blinked at the scrutinizing look she fixed on him even as she nodded in acknowledgment and stretched her lips in a subdued expression of gratitude.

What was going on?

"You refused to be legitimized as a Stark when Sansa offered it!" Arya reminded him. "Why would you do that if you hadn't already known that you were the legitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen and aunt Lyanna?"

"What?" Was all that could come out of Jon's mouth as he gaped at his sister, then looked to his cousin, searching her face in return. 

"Is that what you think? That I already knew?" He inquired, trying to mask his hurt. "That I pretended to—"

"Don't be ridiculous, Jon," Sansa cut him off, frowning at his effusion. "You're the poorest actor I know. You can barely hide your emotions. I know that you didn't pretend anything."

_**You might very soon agree ****that I've been doing a fair job at hiding my feelings for you, **_Jon silently promised before turning to Arya.

"What made you think that, Arya?" He asked.

"Littlefinger," Sansa answered even before the younger Stark woman opened her mouth. "Who else? Before you arrived, Arya was telling us that she'd been in his chambers, and that Baelish admitted to being Robin's biological father."

"What?" Jon exclaimed yet again, and he turned to Bran for confirmation, but his younger brother was already in a trance, likely looking for all the servants Sansa had asked him to identify.

"And Robin knew, he admitted it," Sansa asserted as she clasped her hands in front of her, then looked towards the unlit hearth. "Deep down, I suspected that too."

"You did?" Jon and Arya reacted as one.

"Littlefinger was too kind to aunt Lysa's son," the Queen in the North advanced. "And while he had everything to benefit from being in Robin's good grace, the fact that he didn't look like he was _forcing_ himself to care for the boy was peculiar. Petyr doesn't care for anyone but himself."

"He cares for you," Arya argued with a shrug. "He's the one who got the Knights of the Vale to fight for House Stark, not that selfish cousin of ours. And he clearly wants to marry you," she added with a disgusted grimace that Jon could relate to.

"Yet he sold me to the Boltons at the first occasion that presented itself," Sansa bit out. "I'm certain that he had no idea what a monster Ramsay was, but he sent me away all the same, so that the North would recognize me and get attached to me. So that I would gain power in the North, and delegate that power to him when he somehow got rid of the Boltons too. Littlefinger is always plotting something, always using people as pawns on his game board even as he claims being their friend or ally. But he wasn't using Robin beyond his house name. He could've sent him to be fostered by some lord, away from the Eyrie, since he was the acting Lord Paramount anyways...But he kept Robin close, attended as many of his lessons as his duties allowed, and made us three have supper together like a true family. Because Robin is his son and he genuinely cares for him."

"So is he Robin Stone or Robin Baelish?" Arya inquired as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Either way, he had no right to give away the Vale to Daenerys Targaryen."

"Indeed, he did not," Sansa confirmed before locking gazes with Jon. "That's what the missive you gave Lord Royce was about: I asked him and Lady Waynwood to discreetly appoint the new Lord of the Vale. Robin is still my cousin, so I will not shun him publicly, but he will be set aside to make room for a more competent Lord Paramount. Without my support, which he forfeited by bending the knee to Queen Daenerys, Robin had no chance of keeping the title of Lord of the Vale anyways."

"Did you tell Lord Royce and Lady Waynwood who you had in mind to replace Lord Ar—Robin?" Jon inquired, quite impressed by her quick reaction to the still fresh political scandal.

"I proposed three candidates, and I expect them to settle on one before supper."

"Who are those three candidates?" Arya asked.

Jon believed that he had a good idea of their identities. He remembered a fairly good number of members of noble houses from all of Westeros from his lessons as a boy. He'd been a very diligent student, always trying to prove to Lord Stark that he was worthy of getting the same education as his trueborn siblings, something Lady Stark's constantly reprimanded her husband for.

"Harrold Hardyn, great-nephew to Lord Jon Arryn," Bran's voice stated evenly, and all three turned towards his serene face, his eyes back to normal. "Andar Royce, eldest and only surviving son of Lord Royce. And Wallace Waynwood, Lady Waynwood's youngest son."

"Did you use your powers to see what I wrote?" Sansa asked, looking more surprised than upset.

"I used my powers only to confirm that those three were still alive," Bran assured her. "Not all my knowledge comes from being the Three-Eyed-Raven, you know? When Robb left for war, Maester Luwin made me learn the names of every recorded member of all houses in the North, the Vale and the Riverlands. Those three men have the best claim to become the next Lord of the Eyrie.

"They also happen to be close enough in age to marry Arya," Jon declared after making some quick calculations. "Bran is already marrying into a northern house, so it would be fair to have her unite House Stark to a southern house, especially one in the Vale now that Robin's status has decreased our influence there."

"But I don't want to marry," Arya objected flatly.

"Lord Royce and Lady Waynwood don't know that," Jon and Bran pointed out in unison.

The last trueborn male Stark stared at Jon.

"You remember your lessons?" His brother asked, impressed. "You must have had so many other things to remember since you left home."

"I'm ashamed to say that I remember more about the vassal houses of the Vale than about the northern vassal houses," Jon confessed with a rueful smile. "Because so many nobles in the Vale are..."

Oh.

He'd forgotten, that he and Bran used to have the same aspiration of becoming—

"Knights, yes," Bran completed his sentence with a smile. "It's alright Jon, I've made peace with this," he assured as he patted his lap. "I can do so much more than a knight can, now."

He turned towards Sansa.

"I have all the names," he reported confidently. "But I think that we might only need to call two or three as witnesses. None of them truly meant any harm, Sansa. Lord Baelish painted Jon as a traitor, and they simply wanted to protect you from him."

The queen nodded her understanding.

Jon expected Bran to exchange a look with him too, but instead he glared at Arya.

"You didn't have to kill Denna like that!" He reprimanded his older sister. "She clearly felt remorseful for poisoning Jon's ale. I knew that she was being manipulated by Littlefinger, but she hadn't done anything suspicious..."

"Then you should've told us about her!" Arya countered vehementely. "When we left you the only Stark in Winterfell, you said that you'd see traitors coming from leagues away. You _didn't!_ You let them grow in numbers, and if I hadn't seen Denna in time—" she cut herself off just as her voice started breaking, and she turned to Jon, her eyes misting over before she blinked the tears away.

"Of course I had to kill her!" She argued when she turned back to Bran, who had mellowed down. "When the other servants learn about it, they'll never dare betray House Stark again!"

"They weren't betraying House Stark, Arya," Jon gently reminded his sister as he slowly approached her. "They thought that _I_ was betraying House Stark."

"You're a Stark too!" She claimed, reiterating her earlier words to the southerners. "You are, Jon. You look just like father!" She insisted, her whole body shaking.

He quickly wrapped her in his arms, sensing her own hesitation to seek comfort, and she melted into his embrace, sniffing quietly.

Seven Hells, how long had his baby sister gone without physical affection? At least Bran had been with Meera, and according to Bran, Rickon had been in the care of a Free Woman, Osha. Robb had died with his mother and lady wife, and Jon had been surrounded by his brothers, and had even been temporarily happy with Ygritte. But Arya, and Sansa? Neither of them had even had their direwolves to keep them company all these years away from home, whereas they had never lacked for physical comfort and emotional support when they were little girls. Jon himself, despite growing as a bastard, had been fucking blessed with Ned Stark's subdued affection and his trueborn siblings' unconditional love. All except Sansa's.

That might have been the only thing that had kept him from acting on his urge to be physically close to Sansa when she'd found him at Castle Black and he'd first thought that his strong feelings were simply fierce brotherly protectiveness. Had he been as close to Sansa growing up as he'd been with Arya, Jon would have embraced her and kissed her hair and forehead at every opportunity, the way Father and Robb used to do for her. He'd known that Sansa had been 'horrible' to him only because she'd emulated Lady Catelyn, so he'd never held it against her. At Castle Black, after they'd bluntly summarized their lives since leaving Winterfell as children, Jon had been painfully aware that the sibling he'd worried the least about had been deprived of the safe familial comfort she had taken for granted when growing up, for many years.

Thankfully, Jon had quickly concluded that what he felt for Sansa as his gaze lingered on her, on parts of her covered body he had no rights wondering about, was not brotherly at all. So he hadn't shunned her, because he couldn't have been that cruel to them both, but he hadn't dared offer her the same warm affection he had no problem giving Arya right now without fearing that inappropriate thoughts would subsequently invade his mind.

Jon had been so scared of defiling Sansa even with just his daydreams, with his sinful bastard's fantasies, that he'd never come close to being the gentle and caring brother she deserved, even as she kept reaching for his hands across tables at Castle Black and then kept trying to huddle with him to keep warm when they were on their war campaign. Sansa herself had been such a dutiful sister: making sure that someone kept his tent tidy and that he always had clean water and soap to wash up; nagging him to sit with her for supper while the meal was still warm; sewing him a fur cloak that looked just like Lord Stark's favorite. She'd been so good to him, yet he'd failed at making her feel safe, valued and loved.

_**But I'm not her bastard half-brother,**_ he reminded himself as he presently glanced at Sansa over Arya's head, catching the queen's sad and yes _envious_ gaze just before she adopted her neutral mask. She then gave him a wavering smile in acknowledgement.

_**I'm her cousin, and she's my**_** queen, **he spoke in his head just as he maintained eye contact with Sansa, who blinked then looked away and to Bran, unclasping her hands to straighten the perfectly smooth front of her dress. She then sat down and Jon heard Bran dictate the name of the servants he believed would be of help during Littlefinger's trial.

_ **From this day until my last day.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are always welcome.


	21. Not Guilty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had a direct part in Ned Stark's death, and an indirect one in the death of Robb Stark. He tried and failed to kill Sansa Stark's beloved brother.
> 
> Therefore, yes, he deserved to stand in front of so many northerners. He deserved to be made an example of justice by a rightful queen. 
> 
> He didn't have to like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the chapter title and summary made you freak out or got you a bit confused, they did their job! The chapter itself is very straightforward. 
> 
> In fact, it might be too straightforward? I feel that this wasn't dramatic enough for Littlefinger's trial, but I don't know what else to do for shock value. We all know what Littlefinger did.

"She could have let Snow take his head and be done with it as soon as he got back," Jaime asked as he, Varys and Tyrion exited the Guest Hall. "Starks and their honor!"

There was no need to worry about being heard by loyal servants or spies, not when everyone had to shout in order to hear each other over the cacophony in the [courtyard](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/File:Winterfell_map.png) separating the Guest Hall from the covered corridor leading to the Great Hall.

"The North would have it no other way," Varys spoke in his wiseman tone as he stepped carefully on the cold mud. "Nor the Vale or the Riverlands, for that matter. The words of their liege lords are—"

"'High as honor' and 'Family, Duty, Honor', I know," the knight quoted. "Well, it is no wonder that they chose the most honorable house of Westeros to rule over them."

"They chose Sansa Stark because they did not know that Her Grace Queen Daenerys was coming to free them from our dear sister's tyranny," Tyrion objected.

Was he quite serious? Cersei had crowned herself queen not even two moons ago. What the people of Westeros needed to be freed from was the suffering from the aftermath of too many wars in the last decade, not some abstract tyranny. To be sure, it was the small folk who needed relief, not the nobles who remained untouched by the scarcity of food and clothing. Ah, Jaime supposed that Lord Tully had needed freedom from the Freys. Someone had clearly let him out of his prison cell in the Twins so he could reclaim his castle, where Jaime had initially left him. That old, greedy fool Walder Frey would not be missed, and neither would his infantry of sons.

Who exactly had slaughtered all the adult males of House Frey, but had spared all the women and children? Jaime did not know for sure, but he'd bet his left hand on a woman. A woman capable of sneaking into a well-guarded castle without being noticed, because she could change her appearance at will.

Truly, Arya Stark scared the seven hells out of him, though he could not quite help admiring her skill with that skinny sword of hers as well. Since arriving in Winterfell Jaime had actually sparred with the northern princess a few times, and she'd generously showed him how to adjust his grip and weight distribution as a left-handed swordsman. Bronn had been an excellent sparring partner, but he was no teacher like Lady Brienne; and as good of a teacher as she was, Lady Brienne was right-handed. Jaime had made fast progress learning from Arya Stark, and to a lesser extent by observing the Sand Snakes who'd arrived merely two days ago and were already infamous in the training yard. They were vicious little...snakes, but they were almost as sure footed as the Stark princess.

Another lady fighter worth watching as she drilled new soldiers was actually Meera Reed. Jaime would've completely overlooked her if she didn't spend so much time by Brandon Stark's side, making him blush and smile. Wasn't she too old for the boy Jaime had failed to kill all those years ago? Not that the relationship between the northern noblewoman and her prince was any of his concerns.

(He still had to request an audience with the Stark prince. He must talk to the boy he'd crippled before he set to fight against the greatest enemy he'd fought yet.)

Jaime's main concern of late now that war was imminent, was the fate of the realms in its aftermath. If the living lost, well, there would be no one left to worry about anything, was there? But if the living won, what would become of Lower Westeros? Of the Westerlands? Of his house? Of his sister, who used to also be his lover and the mother of his children?

"If your Dragon Queen dies during the war, Cersei might very well keep the Iron Throne," He blurted out like the dunce he was.

"She will not," Tyrion deadpanned after giving him a look that was a cross between a reproach and concern for his sanity.

Who would not what? The fates of the two pretenders to the Iron Throne were not mutually inclusive.

"In any case, we should be renamed the Seven Queendoms," Jaime proposed, changing subjects when he accepted that, _of course_, Tyrion did not care about Cersei's life anymore.

In his brother's defense, Cersei tried to have him killed. That's how Tyrion had ended up in the service of Daenerys Targaryen, who had come all the way from Slaver's Bay to rule all of Westeros. Apparently the 'Mother of Dragons' (three children...) had conceded to sharing the continent with Sansa Stark, though Tyrion's words and actions suggested that the matter was not quite settled.

Daenerys Targaryen's monstrous dragons had already gained her the allegiance of Yara Greyjoy, Olenna Tyrell and Ellaria Sand, but Jaime wasn't quite sure that these three women could even maintain their positions as the rulers of their respective corners of the continent: Euron Greyjoy was almost certain to drown his niece and nephew before the Great War started at the Wall; nobles in the Reach might decide that it was due time for the Queen of Thorns to retire from politics now that the entire main branch of House Tyrell had gone in green flames; and it was only a question of time before one of the Red Viper's cousins punished Ellaria Sand for the assassination of the well-loved Prince Doran. 

Jaime wished that he had it in him to punish the Sand Snake himself, that he had it in him to get justice for Myrcella. Had Cersei been in his shoes, all of the four Dornish women in Winterfell would already be dead. 

_**But I am not Cersei,**_ he reflected before resuming his inane conversation.

"Though in truth, it is seven queendoms split between three queens, _and_ a principality," he specified. "You know, I stand corrected: the trial of a traitor presided by a legitimate ruler and her competent council is quite a welcome return to normalcy."

"Indeed, Sansa Stark wants her people to believe that justice and honor will be routinely respected under her reign," Varys claimed. "That belief, more than the sheer will to survive, will invigorate the soldiers of her army when they stare death in the face. The thought of winning the war in the name of a good queen will keep them fighting until the bitter end...Well, it's not quite an end if they return as wights. But yes, faith in the just world this fair trial suggests Sansa Stark can provide to the survivors of the Great War...that will arrest any thought of deserting."

"Deserting? To go where, exactly?" Jaime asked with a scoff.

"It's the principle of the idea that counts, brother," the Hand to Daenerys Targaryen argued as they entered the corridor through a door guarded by two northern soldiers.

"Not all of us are brave like you, Jaime," Tyrion continued. "Many a man need a better reason to fight than just proving their superior swordsmanship."

"Reuniting with my family has always been my reason to survive a battle, Tyrion," the warrior reminded his diplomat brother, and he stopped in front of him to block his way. "You know that, right?"

The astute Spider kept going in order to join Daenerys Targaryen, her herald Lady Missandei and a few Dothraki and Unsullied. They'd likely arrived from the Great Keep, where the dragon queen had briefly met with her wolf counterpart. 'Privately'.

"And I don't mean just Cersei," Jaime added for good measure, keeping his voice low and soft. "I _left_ Cersei. When I came here, I didn't have much of a reason to fight this war, other than a mediocre hope to slay yet another dreadful king. But now...Now, I have _you_. I want to come back to you alive, Tyrion. We're family. We just reunited and I don't want to lose you again, brother."

"I'm not sure that we'll get to stay together after the war, brother," the dwarf replied with a sad smile that did not reach his eyes, his voice lower as not to be heard by the group ahead of them. "But I do know that you must come back to me alive, indeed. Because you know that if I lose you, I won't bother persuading Queen Daenerys to spare Cersei's life when the time comes."

"That's not—" the eldest of the Lannister brothers tried to deny, but he shut up when his younger brother shook his head.

"And that's quite alright, Jaime, it is," the Lord Hand reassured him as he switched to nodding. "I'll try my best to convince Her Grace that discreetly shipping you and Cersei off somewhere in Essos is the right thing to do."

"Me too?" Jaime asked curiously.

Had his smart brother actually not realized...?

"The queen understands why you killed her father," Tyrion claimed, "but she cannot find it in her heart to forgive you. She has difficulty, rightfully so, to forgive our house in general. I still get the occasional remark about being a Lannister," he added with a self-deprecating chuckle.

_**Then why do you serve her?**_ Jaime wondered. _**She'll never stop resenting who you are by birth, a part of your identity that you can never get rid of.**_

"I'll see you shortly, brother," Tyrion announced with a nod.

He walked past him, but stopped after only a few short but hasty strides to turn around and speak again.

"Let's share our impressions of this historical event over a cup of good wine in my chambers, yes?" He offered. "The Sand Snakes brought more Dornish wine. For the feast in two nights, they say. I say that it is my duty as Queen Daenerys' Hand to ensure that her wine is of utmost quality. I must try a chalice or two of this new cuvée, and you're invited to my taste-testing session."

"Now, that's something I'm looking forward to!" The knight replied cheerfully, and he watched his brother catch up to his queen's retinue. He waited a few minutes for them to reach the Great Hall before following the same path. By doing so he let a few people pass him, and felt the familiar but still uncomfortable weight of people's judgmental gazes started pressing on him.

The doors to the Great Hall were widely open when he reach them, and no less than eight guards flanked either side of them. The guard who mumbled "you should be tried and found guilty too, kingslayer," had likely fought against him during the war against Robb Stark. Maybe it was a Karstark soldier.

Jaime had the time to inspect the room before the Stark Queen or Lady Brienne noticed him. Except for the queen's throne, all the furniture had been rearranged to look like a courtroom...Southern style? Ah, yes, Queen Sansa's Master of Law was Lord Yohn Royce, a southerner.

When Lady Brienne did spot him, she somehow managed to stand a little taller before exchanging a look with the woman she'd sworn her life to. The northern queen nodded minutely, and the the lady of Tarth left her spot—swiftly filled by a Mormont soldier—to approach him at the only discreet corner he could find in the vast room. It was next to a table occupied by Wildlings who had no reason to care about him, yet one of their leaders, the redhead, stared at him.

"Ser Jaime," the lady soldier greeted him politely. "Have you decided?"

"Have I decided whether or not to testify against Baelish by admitting that my family borrowed gold from him to pay the Golden Cloaks into betraying Ned Stark when he was Robert's Hand?" He elaborated with a scoff. "Yes, I have."

He waited for disappointment to cloud Brienne's eyes, but it never happened. She kept staring at him expectantly, standing tall and still. She didn't even blink.

Jaime sighed, then unbuckled his sword belt, handing it over to a knight of the Vale who came out of nowhere to relieve him of it.

"You're doing the right thing, Ser," the tall blonde woman acknowledged with curt nod before returning to her position by Sansa Stark's right side.

_**Doing the right thing earned me the title of kingslayer, **_he recalled before following another knight of the Vale to the witnesses bench.

* * *

"Petyr Baelish," Lord Royce spoke up loudly as Littlefinger stood between two knights of the Vale at the accused's stand, his hands neatly bound by a rope. "You stand before men and gods, old and new, accused of treason against her Grace Sansa of House Stark, Queen in the North, Ruler of Upper Westeros, by conspiring the death of her heir Prince Jon. How do you respond to this accusation?"

Littlefinger glanced at the witnesses, his eyes widening when they met Jaime's. Then they appraised the other occupants of the bench, most of them servants of the castle, but also a humiliated knight of the Vale who'd admitted to being paid off by Baelish to sneak him out of Winterfell before his original trial time. Somehow the lad thought that the dishonorable kingslayer would be sympathetic to his poor decisions.

Jaime watched the Mockingbird's mind work behind that calculating gaze before he turned back to the Master of Laws. He licked his cracked lips.

"How many witnesses may I call upon to attest to the veracity of my words?" He inquired with a croaked but calm voice.

Bronze Yohn looked to Sansa Stark, who stared right at her traitor Lord Hand when she declared flatly: "I grant anyone present in this room the right to speak for Lord Baelish if they so wish."

_Truly?_ Had she learned nothing from all the years spent by that snake's side? Couldn't she see the small lift of his dry lips as he dipped his head in gratitude? He must have dozens of people in the hall paid to repeat the very words he instructed them to remember!

Baelish cleared his throat, then twisted at the waist to survey the entire room. When he was done meeting the contemptuous and mocking looks with his serene one, he faced Lord Royce once again, straightened to his full height and lifted his chin.

"I deny this charge," he replied sharply, his tone growing passionate as the crowd started whispering in shock. "For two reasons: because I would never betray Queen Sansa, and because Jon Snow, or rather Jaehaerys Targaryen is the real traitor to her person and to her reign!"

"You dare...!" Arya Stark exclaimed as outrage rose in the room, but her sister stopped her from speaking further by calmly raising her hand.

The rest of the room went quiet along with the fierce Princess. Ned Stark's false bastard himself had merely frowned at Littlefinger. No doubt the intricacies of the Game of thrones escaped the taciturn northerner. Not that Jaime as a southerner had a clue what the cunning whorehouse owner was plotting. Even Tyrion, who'd saved his own skin on multiple occasion using only his wits and sharp tongue, looked confused by the Mockingbird's move. Maybe Varys knew what was about to happen, but his serene expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts.

"My Queen," Baelish addressed Sansa Stark herself. "From the moment your father was beheaded by the bastard king Joffrey, I put my own life at risk over and over again to keep you safe."

Oh. The Stark Queen might actually know Littlefinger better than most. His very first claim could be rebutted by the fact that he had plotted against the illegal arrest of Ned Stark put his daughter in danger. That's why she'd asked Jaimed to testify. Well done, She-Wolf.

"I arranged for your escape out of King's Landing on Joffrey's wedding to Margaery Tyrell," the Mockingbird recounted before he turned around to smirk at Tyrion, "and I was the one who provided the Strangler to Olenna Tyrell."

Jaime was surprised, but not shocked, and certainly not angry at the man who'd orchestrated the death of his heinous firstborn bastard son. But Varys had to grab Tyrion to keep him seated.

"Joffrey was king, so I could not openly protect you from him," Baelish explained. "Therefore I did the best thing I could think of: make sure that he never threatened you again. I killed a king for you, Sansa."

The redheaded queen stared at the accused, no sign of gratitude on her face. In fact, Jaime could see detached yet obvious contempt in her eyes. He personally knew how it felt to be so utterly dismissed by the head of House Stark, and for a few second he sympathized with Littlefinger.

"You're not on trial for killing the Lannister usurper king!" Lord Royce pointed out. "You're on trial for treason, through the attempted murders on His Grace Prince Jon!"

"Jon Snow is the real traitor!" Littlefinger talked back, sending the crowd in another subdued frenzy. Considering that northerners were in the majority, the 'subdued' part was a euphemism.

The Mockingbird's eyes glinted with fear when Arya Stark grabbed the hilt of her skinny sword. Yet he soldiered on. "He's not your brother, Princess Arya. He never was. He's a Targaryen born and raised!"

"How dare you make a farce of this trial by lying so blatantly?" The Master of Laws demanded loudly.

"What did I just say that was a lie?" Baelish challenged. "Was His Grace Jon not born Jaehaerys Targaryen?"

The Council member didn't answer, and even the crowd quieted down.

"Today he claims that he didn't know of his parentage, but that's not true," the Mockingbird dared tell the audience and the queen. "Tyrion Lannister! I believe that you spent some time at the Wall years ago, when Jon Snow was still a green boy. He went there against everyone's expectations, I'm sure. Tell us, dwarf: who was the maester at Castle Black back then?"

As if Tyrion would say anything in his favor after learning that he'd been responsible for his Joffrey's death!

Jaime gaped when Tyrion readily hopped off his chair and answered: "Castle Black was under the care of Maester Aemon...born Aemon Targaryen."

Gasps resonated around the room. Even the dragon queen gaped at Littlefinger's back, then at her nephew.

Tyrion was still on his feet, looking much too eager to contribute more in favor of the Mockingbird. He didn't even react to the whispers in the crowd calling Daenerys Targaryen 'the real dragon, the Targaryen conqueror!'

Why was Jaime's brother so ostentatiously hostile to his own queen's only family? He'd once told Jaime that he sympathized with Ned Stark's bastard, that he understood his plight as a nobleman's greatest shame.

Ah, but unlike Tywin, Lord Stark had never mistreated his son, had he? And Snow was actually trueborn, not a bastard at all. Furthermore, unlike Tyrion, he was a dashing, young man reputed to be a great swordsman. Noble and lowborn women alike gathered around the training yard whenever he had time to spar and teach the soldiers of his sister-cousin's army—well, _his army:_ he was the General of the Tripartite Forces, and might very well be granted command of his aunt's Unsullied and few Dothraki. Most importantly, Snow had the explicit, complete trust of Sansa Stark, whereas according to Tyrion, she'd subtly rejected his friendship despite him showing her nothing but kindness.

By the Warrior. Was Tyrion acting out of petty_ jealousy?_

"If Jon Snow was so loyal to House Stark, why would he follow my recommendation to make a marriage offer to Daenerys Targaryen, knowing that he was a Targaryen himself?" Baelish questioned, and this time whispers against the heir Prince spread around the room.

Unlike Jaime, the people hadn't known the details of the mission in Dragonstone. Few had known how the White Wolf had convinced the Dragon Queen to join the battle against the Night King. Now they had a good idea of how much politics had gone into it.

"Jon Snow has sworn his life to Queen Sansa in front of the Council!" Lord Royce reassured the crowd, who gradually calmed down. "He is loyal to House Stark. One more false statement of his character and you'll lose your head, you traitor!" The Master of Laws threatened.

"I am the most loyal servant of Sansa Stark!" Littlefinger made the unbelievable claim as he turned towards the crowd. "She is your queen today because I protected her from the Lannisters—"

"But not from the Boltons!" An elderly lady from the Vale pointed out as she stood up. (Lady Waynwood, wasn't it?) "You sold Lady Catelyn's daughter to the man who slaughtered her and her son Robb Stark, the last King in the North!"

"I didn't know what a monster Ramsay Bolton was," the accused justified himself. "Otherwise I wouldn't have been eager to return Her Grace home, where I thought that northerners would welcome her back with wide arms. She wanted to be home!"

"She _was_ home with her aunt and her cousin in the Eyrie!" Lord Royce himself intervened. "But you couldn't keep her around because you were afraid of Cersei Lannister weren't you, you conniving liar? You claimed to have risked your own life to protect hers, but if truly you wanted to prove your loyalty to House Stark, you would've never given her away to the turncoats!"

Jaime was impressed that, despite everyone being granted freedom to speak, there was no chaos. The crowd reacted dramatically, but quieted down to let the next person speak up. It had to be that they did not wish to anger their queen with disorder. Sansa Stark was watching the puppet show unfold with icy blue eyes. Her facial expression revealed nothing of her thoughts.

"Her aunt?" Baelish repeated. "Lysa was jealous of Sansa's beauty and grace the same way that she'd been jealous of her sister Catelyn when they were young...because I love Queen Sansa even more than I ever loved her mother. I had to kill Lysa, otherwise she would've harmed her niece."

For once the Master of Laws had to order the castle guards to bring order to the courtroom, mostly by keeping the most outraged amongst the lords away from that disgusting fool. Jaime noted that this time Jon Snow's face briefly contorted into a mask of pure hatred, but except for a tight curl of his bare hands on the armrests he didn't make a move and quickly adopted a neutral expression again.

(Bare hands? The Guest Hall was warmer than the Great Hall and Jaime still required a well-stoked fire in the hearth in order to forgo gloves in his room because they were in the _middle of a damn northern winter_. But Snow had lived beyond the Wall, hadn't he? The only other people in the room going without gloves were the Wildlings, but unlike him they were wrapped in thick furs and were sharing body heat by huddling together at their tables.)

The kingslayer couldn't tell who looked more eager to strangle Baelish: northern lords appalled that the vicious man coveted their righteous and beautiful queen (hypocritical, wasn't it? Half of them would certainly kill to be granted the red-haired beauty's hand in marriage), or southerners who wanted to avenge the murder of Lysa Arryn née Tully. Yet other lords looked that they didn't need a reason to end that traitor's life.

Littlefinger looked unconcerned by the chaos he'd created in the room, or rather he looked quite smug by the stirrings. His smile faltered when he noticed that Sansa Stark didn't look affected by the reveal of his terrible secret.

"I killed my own lady wife to _protect you,_ my queen!" The traitor claimed passionately, addressing Sansa Stark again. "Just as I gave you the means to kill that bastard Ramsay! The moment I heard of his abusive nature, I rode North! The battle against the Boltons wouldn't have been won had the knights of the Vale not ridden in!"

That got the crowd very quiet.

"I demanded no reward for my contribution," Baelish recounted, "because everything I've ever done for you, I've done it out of _love!_ Being chosen as your Lord Hand was the highest honor of my life! Why would I jeopardize my position by antagonizing your brother, or rather cousin, if it wasn't to protect you once again? If I wasn't suspecting that yet _another ambitious bastard_ was threatening your life?"

Lord Royce frowned deeply as whispers rose again in the room. Littlefinger's last statement had attacked Snow's character, but he'd used the term 'suspected' to specify that it was just his opinion, not a claim. It would influence people's views on the dragonwolf still. Clever.

Jaime watched Tyrion retake his seat, looking smug. Much more smug than Littlefinger, who actually looked worried by the Queen of Upper Westeros' unchanged passivity.

"Your Grace!" Baelish called onto her, doubts furrowing his brow.

"You've had more than enough time to defend yourself, Lord Baelish," Sansa Stark declared in a voice so devoid of emotion that everyone else in the room shut their mouths.

Jaime felt a chill run up his spine at the cold detachment Ned Stark's eldest daughter was displaying in front of the man who'd wreaked so much havoc in her life. For years, the kingslayer had believed that no one would ever catch the slippery snake, or rather cage the bird who seemed to always take flight at the right moment. Yet there was the _little girl_ who owed her very life to Petyr Baelish, a conniving player of the Game. A player who'd always been on the winning side...and she was the one bringing him down.

No, Jaime didn't know any girl like Sansa Stark, but he'd known _a man_ like her, and it wasn't her father.

_**What did Father tell me and Cersei, when he'd summoned us both the day after her wedding to Robert?**_ Jaime tried to remember.

He'd thought for sure that Tywin would confront them about their incestuous affair then. But he'd just wished to impart a little Lannister wisdom:

_"When you play the Game of Thrones, you win or you die. Until I took leadership of our house, the fate of the Lannisters was to die. We'd had no wins in many decades, because my father was a simple, weak and gullible man. Unlike him I am no idiot, I am one of the best swords in the realms, and I know how to identify those who would threaten our family. And I rose to this status of power by learning from my father's mistakes. I've earned my reputation by punishing his enemies swiftly and decisively. I did not do so overnight: I patiently waited for the right time to strike each and every one of them, after watching for years the puppet show that painted my father as the fool. I counted all of the schemers and traitors who'd made House Lannister suffer great losses. Most importantly, I kept all the most dangerous of our enemies close, so that they wouldn't get the chance to flee before I could deal with them. And when that day came, I made them pay their debts with interest."_

Cersei boasted herself to be the one who'd taken the most after their father, but Jaime had always known that it was Tyrion who emulated Tywin Lannister's shrewdness. Cersei had never been the powerful and charismatic queen that to this day she believed herself to be. Jaime had loved her despite all her flaws: she was impulsive, malicious, vengeful, and self-centered. Even as she claimed to love Jaime and her children, she'd never acted in their best interests.

Sansa Stark, on the other hand...The Seven be good, she was everything Cersei wished to be. She'd learned from her father's mistakes, and there she was, getting rid of the most perfidious of her family's enemies after reclaiming not just her home, but also after freeing the Vale and Riverlands from the Iron Throne's influence; after getting rid of the Boltons herself; after her sister had very likely exterminated the Freys; after Joffrey had been poisoned by the man who wanted her favor and the grandmother of her dear friend Margaery Tyrell.

Only Cersei was left.

It did not escape Jaime's notice that he wasn't on trial for his own wrongdoings against House Stark. That was due to the fact that, unlike Littlefinger who hadn't done anything in his life for anyone but himself, Jaime had perpetrated crimes against the wolves in the name of House Lannister. He'd simply done his duty to his family, and Sansa Stark understood that. She didn't find him guilty of wishing her or her family ill.

Because Brandon Stark didn't remember Jaime pushing him off that window.

It had taken the knight being brought his first meal and a fur cloak in his comfortable and relatively warm room in the Guest Hall to realize that Sansa Stark meant it when she'd named him a friend of her house. He'd been allowed access to all public spaces of Winterfell like any other guest, including the training yard. There, Arya Stark had treated him equally to any other trainee—no, that wasn't true: she had in fact showed him preferential treatment because he was left-handed just like her. Jon Snow had consulted him about battle strategy just like he'd talked to any other experienced military leader. Brandon Stark ignored him, but the crippled prince ignored everyone who wasn't his family, Meera Reed, a direwolf or a damn crow.

The knight did get 'kingslayer' frequently thrown at him, and some of the soldiers who'd fought for Robb Stark were transparent about their hatred for him, but none had acted on their feelings so far. No one had even blocked his way or spat in his food, ale or wine.

Jaime liked to joke about Starks and their honor, but deep down, he was in awe at the high moral standard displayed by Ned Stark's children, true and adopted. He was in awe not only because they proved themselves to be better people than most, but because the people who'd accepted them as their lieges readily followed their example, whether they liked it or not. Most were for certain eager to win the Starks' approval. If he were to be honest, Jaime would admit to wanting to show the wolves that their trust was not misplaced on him. So when it was his time to testify against Littlefinger, he did not leave out any detail that could incriminate him. Not that his testimony held greater weight than that of the northern servants who'd known about the rare poison Baelish had had made to kill Jon Snow.

There was a short recess during which witnesses had been invited to rejoin the rest of the crowd and the Council had convened in the backroom next door to the Great Hall. The queen and her family remained seated, though Arya Stark moved to her sister's right and whispered something to her ear, both of their sharp gazes on the accused.

Aware of his impeding execution, Littlefinger had started to sweat profusely and now he was looking at to the empty witnesses bench with confusion. He then craned his head around, looking for someone he clearly could not find in the courtroom. Maybe one of his spies? Had he actually had the time to plot anything? Maybe a diversion for his escape plan?

"Where's Denna? You! Where's _Denna?_" He questioned one of the servants who'd testified against him, and a knight of the Vale ordered him to remain quiet or get acquainted with the back of his armored hand.

All stood up, even the queen, when the Council returned in the room, and Lord Royce assumed his position as the presiding member of the court.

"Lord Petyr of House Baelish," the Master of Law spoke loudly and intelligibly, "per the witnesses' accounts and your own testimony, you have been judged guilty of conspiracy against House Stark. You are guilty of the unlawful arrest of Lord Eddard Stark when he was Lord Hand of the rightful King Robert Baratheon; you are guilty of facilitating the dishonorable murder of King Robb Stark, his queen mother Catelyn Stark née Tully and his wife Talisa Stark; you are guilty of the murder of Lady Lysa Arryn née Tully; and you are guilty of the direct attempt to the life of His Grace Jon, Heir to Queen Sansa Stark."

"For these crimes," the red-haired queen spoke up, "I, Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Queen of Upper Westeros, sentence you Lord Baelish, to death."

For a long moment it seemed that Baelish could not believe that this was happening to _him_. It took watching Jon Snow grab his sword, neatly placed against his chair, for the Mockingbird to get agitated.

"Sansa—Your Grace!" Littlefinger pleaded loudly, desperation making his voice shake as two knights of the Vale grabbed him. "I was simply trying to protect..."

"You have the right to speak _concise_ last words, Lord Baelish," the Stark queen instructed sternly as her heir stepped closer to. "Choose them wisely, and speak them when we arrive at the execution block."

Only the royal family, their guards and the Council followed the escorted accused outside to the execution block, located close to the small sept—a very respectable spot for a southerner to take his last breath. The Starks' honor truly knew no bound. The rest of the crowd watched from the roofed open floor connected to the Great Hall. Many booed the Mockingbird as he was untied and forced down on his knees before his neck was slotted in the dip of the block. A loud shout from Lord Royce quieted the insults and cheers alike.

Despite the loud activity coming from the courtyard beyond his sight, Jaime was able to hear the ring of Jon Snow's Valyrian steel blade being drawn out of its scabbard.

"Your last words, Lord Baelish," he prompted flatly.

Tears were falling from Littlefinger's eyes as they looked up to Sansa Stark.

"My love, can't you see? _He_ planned it all," the traitor shouted, accusing the queen's heir yet again, but he was going to get decapitated anyways, what did he have to lose?

"He knew that I was the only one who'd have the guts to stop him! I'm the only one who can protect you from him!" Baelish claimed loudly. "He pretends to emulate his adoptive father Eddard Stark, but he's as dishonorable as his _true father_, Rhaegar Targaryen—"

"Take his head!" Daenerys Targaryen almost screamed from her spot, fury coating her authoritative voice. "Jaehaerys!" She called out at an even louder volume, her breath in the air a white smoke, validating her identity. She was a dragon ready to spit fire.

Snow's own breaths were measured as he spared his aunt an acknowledging glance, but he waited for a word from his sister-cousin, who was frowning at a now hopeful Littlefinger.

"You can tell now, can't you?" Jaime barely managed to hear the Mockingbird say. "_Think_, my love, the way I taught you: every possible scenario. Why would he let you be queen over him? Why would he volunteer to meet his aunt in Dragonstone? So what if he swore a vow, he'd broken other vows before—"

"Do it," Sansa's quiet and final decision was only audible because a burst of wind carried it to the audience a second before her heir lifted his sword high and shifted to a surer grip on the hilt.

"Sansa! I love—"

The Mockingbord's last cry was interrupted when his head was neatly chopped off his shoulders. 

After an awkward silence, people cheered, whistled and wooted. Many clapped their hands or raised their fists, and quite a few laughed in relief and elation. Jaime watched his brother, who didn't look as satisfied as his queen. Even Varys looked a bit sad, maybe to see another player of the game be so thoroughly beaten by someone as straightforward as the She-Wolf.

Jaime looked at the queen as she herself stared at the head that briefly rolled on the ground, staining the immaculate snow with red deeper than the color of her long hair. Her jaw ticked and her breath didn't show in the wintry air for many long seconds as her eyes struggled to focus ahead of her, but then she blinked and reassumed her regal stance, looking back at the crowd calling her name."The queen in the North!" clashed with "House Stark!", "White Wolf!" and "Honor and Justice for Upper Westeros!"

It was only because he tried to catch the eyes of the crippled prince out of guilt (_"the things I do for love"_) that Jaime was able to see Jon Snow, hidden from most behind his taller queen, smiling satisfyingly at the head that one of the guards picked up with a rag.

To be sure, the dragonwolf had all the rights to smile for killing the man who'd tried to kill him first, but there was something in his eyes. Jaime couldn't quite identify it, but it didn't look like something that should be reflected in the eyes of Sansa's Stark sworn sword. It was something that the knight knew would never color the eyes of Lady Brienne, Sansa Stark's sworn shield.

It was something dark and intense. The blood dripping from the heir prince's beautiful blade even made him appear as more of an aggressor than a protector.

The knight started chiding himself for falling for Baelish's mind games like an idiot, but then Sansa Stark turned towards her brother-cousin, and Jaime saw Snow drop his dark expression and adopt the earnest if brooding look all knew him for, the change on his face _so swift_ that Jaime almost believed that the other expression had never been there in the first place.

But then he noticed Princess Arya's shocked expression as her eyes were wide on her oblivious brother-cousin. She'd seen it too.

And it was because of her suspicious look at Littlefinger's head and body as they were dragged away that Jaime himself started to believe that Baelish's stubborn accusations against Jon Snow, no, against _Jaehaerys Targaryen_, might not be false after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


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